


in your arms, i am a wild creature

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Ballad of Tam Lin, But only one instance of it for magic-purposes, Changelings, Creature!Jaskier | Dandelion, Drunk Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Drunk Jaskier | Dandelion, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fantasy Racism, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Mentioned Witcher Training, Mild references to sex, Miscommunication, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Plants, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Tired Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Contracts, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 77,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25481968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: The fae grins again, and his heartbeat quickens:prey. He’s prey. “I see thatsomeonetaught you of our kind. You may call me Jaskier.”“‘Jaskier,’” he repeats. Geralt’s mouth suddenly tastes ofyellow. Like butter. Or springtime, and flowers.A different version of Geralt and Jaskier meet; Geralt is still a witcher— it’s Jaskier who’s different.Or my take on fae!Jaskier.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg - Relationship
Comments: 192
Kudos: 401





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> “And pleasant is the fairy land,  
> But, an eerie tale to tell,  
> Ay at the end of seven years,  
> We pay a tiend to hell,  
> I am sae fair and fu o flesh,  
> I’m feard it be mysel.”  
> — “Tam Lin (1792 version),” _The English and Scottish Popular Ballads_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt takes a contract on a Leshen and meets a member of the Fay. Things go on from there.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Even though it’s been many centuries since any Fair Folk were seen, Vesemir still swears that they’re real. Geralt’s mentor has never seen a member of the Fay personally, though he says that his own mentor, long, long ago, had seen— and battled— them. “They mayn’t be around much these days, boys, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there, biding their time,” the old witcher had told Geralt and Eskel throughout their youth. So while Geralt personally does not believe that the Fay exist (or if they _ever_ existed, if he is being honest), he still knows how to recognize one, their weaknesses, strengths, and so on.

On this, Geralt and his mentor agree: it’s best to have the knowledge and never need it than the reverse.

He crosses the Pontar River, heading south from Kaer Morhen, bundled beneath a thin blanket in addition to his armor. It is early enough into the new season that there is still a slight chance of snow, and each new day holds frost, and his and Roach’s breath is visible in the sparkling light of dawn. Say what he will about some of Vesemir’s superstitions, but Geralt has never liked the icy _wrong_ feeling that crawls beneath his skin as he crosses the ley line which runs closely parallel to the river. Even now, he wonders if perhaps that’s partly why Stregobor was so off-kilter; prolonged exposure to the lines’ unnaturalness. But he will never know. And it doesn’t matter now anyhow.

In these parts of the Continent, he will forever be known as ‘the Butcher’ and nothing else.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Vesemir always told him never to step foot inside a fae ring.

Geralt may not exactly believe in the Fay but he’s no fool; there is no reason to court danger unnecessarily. So whenever he sees such a circle of fungi, he gives it a wide berth. Unfortunately, when he’s fighting a real monster, such warnings tend to fly out of his head. After weeks of roving from town to village to settlement to town, he has not seen a single contract for monsters. So when a brief glance at this latest notice board reveals a post that says ‘Witcher,’ he takes it.

The notice is unusually detailed: hunters disappearing, livestock wandering off into the forest, strange sounds in the dead of the night. Woodsmen come back with deep, haunted eyes. Strange, overly-watchful gatherings of wild animals. At first, he thinks that it could be a Leshy, but with that final addition, Geralt frowns. There is no way that the monster is anything but a Leshen. _Fuck_.

So he, reluctantly, prepares for a difficult and long battle. Ordinarily, the witcher may not have taken such a contract, but it’s clear that in a sleepy backwater like this, it will be a while before another member of his dwindling guild makes their way here. By that time, it could be too late.

And while he doesn’t necessarily need to stay at an inn, it would be good for Roach to have a night or two out of the lingering damp and cold. Besides, Geralt’s coin purse has grown alarmingly light as he’s been overcharged for basic supplies everywhere he stops in these especially unfriendly parts.

But he is still not happy about it.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Geralt fights the Leshen, and it’s as unpleasant an experience as he had suspected it would be.

Though the forest spirit is not, thankfully, ancient, it is old enough to cause him serious problems, and he quickly uses up a good amount of his potion supply. By the time the witcher has finished the hunt, his skin is coated in a sheen of cooling sweat, armor covered in bits of twig, grass, blood, fur, and other gunk, and scratches and bruises litter his body. Geralt takes a moment to pant, doubled over, using his steel blade to hold himself up. He’s not bleeding too heavily— save from a rather large puncture wound in his thigh— but his ribs ache in a way that means that he will be out of commission for at least a week.

His blood is also bubbling with toxicity, and Geralt can feel his veins bulging, black with too many potions. The witcher will have to wait to return to civilization until the potions wear off. “Shit,” he hisses, burying his steel blade farther into the dirt as he tries to push himself upright. Geralt manages to stumble away from the blade towards his potions bag, down a vial of Swallow, and collapse more-or-less against a tree. He sinks to the forest floor, straightens out his legs and closes his eyes, utterly drained, to wait it out.

He never notices the fae ring which he stepped into momentarily while reaching for his potions bag.

**• ~ * ~ •**

It’s not the heady smell of magic which wakes him— though when the witcher _does_ wake, the smell is particularly strong. Not even the faint, spine-tingling humming. Nor the high, eerie sound of pealing bells which could be called laughter. No, what wakes him is the sound of steel cutting through the air. Geralt jolts awake, hissing as his ribs are jostled, which sends fiery bolts of pain throughout his body.

He blinks and takes in the dim late afternoon light. It’s _a lot_ later than it should be. He frowns, momentarily distracted by this unsettling discovery. Then he hears a sword— _his sword_ — cutting through the air again, and that unnatural laugh. “Hey!” Geralt gets to his feet stiffly and glares at the strange, lithe man before him, who is holding his sword. The stranger ignores him, and the witcher’s nostrils flare and his lips purse.

As he starts forward, the man thrusts the blade forward once more, then turns to him, grinning.

Geralt jerks to a halt and blinks. His nostrils flare again. _Magic. Lots of magic_. The witcher’s medallion begins to hum louder than a swarm of bees, and it vibrates wildly. His heartbeat races uneasily. _That’s not a Human man_. He frowns, holding his ground, gaze not daring to divert from the creature a single inch. Geralt’s empty hands itch to draw his silver blade, but he is not entirely sure that he will be fast enough if the creature chooses to attack. So he waits, taking in the being before him.

The creature— _he’s a fae_ , his mind supplies— does look remarkably like a Human male at first. So Geralt forgives himself for his earlier outburst because of it. The creature is roughly human-shaped and sized, has tousled, wood-brown locks, two arms, and legs… but that’s where the similarities end.

The fae, who is still smiling alarmingly, has the teeth of a predator: all glistening white, razor-sharp points, and his skin is supernaturally smooth and nearly pale as milk. His fingers, which grip Geralt’s sword inexpertly, are long and spindly, tipped with dark purplish nails, also wickedly pointed. The fae’s ears, poking through his hair, are tipped as well; not as much as an Elf’s, but close enough. His lips look the color of strawberries and seem soft as velvet. And his eyes— Geralt would have to be blind not to notice them, and even then…

Even then, he still might.

The fae’s eyes are so purely blue, it nearly makes his own water. They’re without a single fleck on non-blue, and even his pupils seem to hold just the barest tint of the color in them. But it is not just the color that holds the witcher’s attention, but their depth. The fae’s eyes are timeless: like the space between the sky and ocean, the mountain range on the horizon, or the deep quiet of a remote path in the middle of the woods. _Fay can mesmerize a man with naught but their gaze_. Geralt blinks and absently realizes he’s dizzy. He looks at the fae before him through his eyelashes after that.

In the distance, a bird sings, and Geralt’s pulse leaps with a stomach-churning suddenness.

The fae abruptly crouches, letting the steel blade fall to the forest floor with a soft clatter. Geralt bites his tongue to keep from snapping about the carelessness of it.

“I take it that you’re the one who killed the Leshen?”

He blinks, head momentarily spinning at the sound of the fae’s voice. It’s as pure and spine-tingling as his laugh. If he didn’t know the danger behind it better, Geralt would almost say he could listen to it for hours. Absently, he wonders if Fay sing. Then his mind processes the fae’s question, and he pales. _Oh shit. Fay’re nature-loving creatures. The Leshen was a forest spirit._ He’s probably angry.

The fae, who has been observing him, turns his head and stares at the decapitated Leshen-head before him. As Geralt watches, he reaches out one of those spindly fingers and pokes it into one of the Leshen’s empty eye sockets. The witcher makes a distressed noise deep in his throat, and the fae looks up again, grinning. His blue gaze meets Geralt’s for a moment before the witcher is able to force himself to look away again.

“What’s your name?”

The scent of magic, which has coated Geralt’s nose and tongue like the world’s most cloying perfume, increases. He feels it buzzing beneath his skin, and he speaks without desiring to: “Geralt.” The fae grins again, and the witcher inhales sharply, perturbed. Then the creature stands, with a water-smooth gracefulness, and slowly walks forward. Geralt regains his wits and withdraws his silver blade. _Why didn’t I listen to Vesemir and have an iron one made too?_ he asks himself deliriously.

Silver works on the Fair Folk, works on most creatures, but iron is always better. Not that his odds of winning a fight against a fae would be very good, even with iron. They are even worse now, with how exhausted and injured he is. But the fae seems to pay no mind to his drawn blade. Or at least, he’s not threatened enough by Geralt to openly look put off by the drawn weapon. Neither option, he finds, is very comforting.

“Ah, I was right. You _are_ a witcher!” the fae says, cackling.

Geralt blinks, muscles still tensed. “So?”

The fae smiles, looking demurely at him from beneath sinfully long lashes. His own vision starts to tunnel in and hyper-focus on those blue gems-for-eyes, and he blinks. “I have never, in all my long years, met a witcher before, Geralt. It’s a pleasure.”

He blinks again, and answers automatically, “I’ve never met a fae— heard of you though.”

The fae inclines his head— their head? Geralt’s not sure. He’s been told that Fay conceive of gender differently than humans do, and besides, this one is pretty enough that the witcher isn’t sure if it’s male. “Most mortals have not. Consider yourself honored, Master Witcher. And since you have so nicely _not_ attempted to stab me with that dastardly silver blade you have there, I shall give you my name as well. Or, rather, _one_ of my names.”

Geralt feels his eyebrows raise. _To be told a fae’s name is… unusual. Names have power— chosen or true._ “That’s… generous of you. Thanks,” he says cautiously. However he feels about this encounter— and _that_ itself is a complicated question to answer— being polite to the otherworldly, extraordinarily powerful creature before him certainly can’t hurt.

The fae grins again, and his heartbeat quickens: _prey_. He’s prey. “I see that _someone_ taught you of our kind. You may call me Jaskier.”

“‘Jaskier,’” he repeats. Geralt’s mouth suddenly tastes of _yellow_. _Like butter. Or springtime, and flowers_.

Jaskier, the fae, grins, and inclines his body in a short bow. “A pleasure, Geralt. Until next time.”

Then, abruptly, he’s gone. Geralt stands there, by the Leshen’s decapitated head entirely too long. Long enough for it to become full-dark. Then he blinks, feeling dazed, or as if he’s begun to be too far into his cups. The witcher curses. Then Jaskier’s parting words hit him: _next time_. The fae intends to visit him again. He curses more harshly. _Gods, this is bad._ He really needs to see Vesemir now.

**• ~ * ~ •**

As soon as he makes it back to the small settlement, Geralt collects his pay from the none-too-happy village alderman then quickly returns to the inn, looking over his shoulder the whole trip. Not that being able to _see_ the fae— Jaskier— will exactly help to keep him safe. The farther he walks, the more the witcher’s expression darkens. Geralt racks his mind for any and all useful information that he has learned about the Fair Folk over the long years of his life. Apparently he’ll need it now. Ugh.

 ~~Don’t attract their attention~~. Too late for that. ~~Don’t give them your name~~. Also too late. _Fuck. Vesemir’s going to kill me_ , Geralt thinks, grimacing. But he can still do other things to protect himself: Fay don’t like iron or salt. Cream gets them drunk, and St. John’s Wort and Yarrow harm them as well. Perhaps he’ll be able to ask Yennefer for some advice— or maybe a form of protection. Though he is a bit skeptical about a sorceress’s ability, even one as powerful as Yennefer of Vengerberg, to do much against such an inherently magical creature as a fae. _Fuck_.

Geralt grimaces as he sinks into the too-small bath and starts rubbing at his hair, which has somehow got twigs and tangles in it.

In a fit of spite, he blames Jaskier.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Instead of leaving straight away the next morning as planned, the witcher asks after a blacksmith. Unfortunately— if perhaps not unexpectedly— he is told that the nearest blacksmith resides no closer than a three-day ride from the small village. He curses to himself and thanks the innkeeper for the information. After he has packed up, Geralt reprovisions himself and buys an extra large bag of salt. Then he sets out for the blacksmith. This will be the longest short trip he’s ever made.

He doesn’t once sense hide nor hair of the fae throughout the journey.

Perhaps Jaskier has a way of hiding himself from Geralt’s senses, but then again, he had _smelled_ the dizzying magic which the fae gave off, and his medallion had gone absolutely insane when Jaskier was around last. Perhaps the fae has simply lost interest in him already, or only said what he said in order to jerk the witcher around; the Fair Folk are known for being tricksters, after all.

Or maybe he _had_ meant that he would seek Geralt out again but forgot that mortals (witchers included) have much shorter lifespans and so he won’t return for another few centuries. Somehow, Geralt suspects that none of his optimistic suspicions are true. The most likely possibility is that Jaskier _wants_ him worried, and the fae is simply biding his time. If he thinks about it rationally, the only conclusion the witcher can come to is that he’s probably fucked.

So he takes to keeping the overlarge bag of salt in his potions bag at his side, no matter how cramped it becomes. Until he has an iron sword, Geralt needs all the protection he can get— it’s true that his silver blade would work well against the fae, but the witcher needs it to fight other monsters too badly to risk losing it in a confrontation with Jaskier. Besides, he’ll feel better when he has _two_ swords which he can defend himself with.

 _An unprepared witcher is a dead, or soon-to-die witcher_. That’s another of Vesemir’s sayings.

**• ~ * ~ •**

He finally reaches the village and follows the scent of burning wood, sweat, and the metallic taste on his tongue towards the blacksmith. “How quickly can you forge an iron sword?” Geralt asks. The blacksmith is an early middle-aged, ruddy-faced man with arms nearly the size of a regular man’s thigh. At the witcher’s inquiry, he raises a brow, looks over Geralt, and takes in the medallion, the two blades on his back, the armor.

“How much you willin’ to pay, Witcher?”

They agree on a price— high, but not entirely unfair— and the blacksmith tells him to come back in a week. Geralt bites down on the question: ‘Can’t you make it faster?’ because he himself has heard such mind-numbing questions before, and the answer to them is nearly always: ‘No.’ Professionalism— be it monster-killing or sword-making— takes time.

So instead, he nods. “Which way to the nearest inn?”

**• ~ * ~ •**

The inn is larger than the last and relatively well-maintained. He supposes that it is easier here, where travelers are less common than in the larger cities. Geralt is by no means a connoisseur of inns, but he has been around long enough, and stayed in enough inns, to have seen his fair share of them, and judged each accordingly. He gets a corner room with a small window and a surprisingly large tub. The first thing he does after stabling Roach is to circle the perimeter of the room with salt and pray that nothing disturbs the supernatural barrier. Though, he recalls, Fay don’t much like human settlements. That should help too.

To endure the long wait more easily, the witcher goes out the next morning in search of more contracts. _Un_ fortunately, there is only one for some Nekkers, and another that mentions some sort of haunting, but from its description, he thinks it is probably no more than a youthful prank that’s being played. Still, to drive off the boredom, he’ll investigate. After he deals with the Nekkers.

**• ~ * ~ •**

There are only three Nekkers, so while the job is a bit challenging, it is not truly dangerous. So it doesn’t take long enough to complete to distract him from his worries. Geralt collects his pay and moves on to the next contract. As he had expected, the ‘haunting’ is not a haunting at all, though it does take a bit of time to catch the youthful culprits behind the prank. The witcher is more than a bit grumpy afterward; he doesn’t enjoy chasing after idiot teenagers all night long, nor wasting perfectly good Cat and Specter Oil. Geralt had also had to take a pay cut since there were no actual monsters involved.

He walks back to the inn in the soft dawn light and brushes Roach until he feels less angry. Then he eats, returns to his room, bathes, and spends the next few hours inventorying his potions, sharpening his blades, and mending his clothing.

Fortunately, the village herbalist— a stooped over, white-haired woman— has abundant supplies, so he is able to purchase much of what he needs from her small, ancient-looking shop. “It’s on cause that I’m really the only one around here; the people need what they need,” the proprietress informs him. Geralt merely nods, tucking the St. John’s Wort carefully into his pocket. As soon as the iron sword is finished, he’ll make an oil from the plant and coat his blade with it. Let the fae try to attack him then.

**• ~ * ~ •**

After five more agonizing days, every article of Geralt’s clothing is, for once, without a single tear or hole. His swords are sharp enough to split hairs, and the witcher’s armor gleams. Roach’s coat has never looked so glossy and his bags have never been packed so neatly. The herbalist’s name is Maude, and she is seventy years old. Geralt tells her that he’s eighty-five, to which she laughs.

At first light, he walks to the blacksmith’s and waits.

The sword is a thing of beauty— as it should be, for the amount of coin he paid for it. Its color is not something he is used to; the blade is much darker than steel, but it shines beautifully when he holds it up to the light, tilting the weapon to check for any imperfections. The dark, glossy gray metal will pair well with his armor. Not that he shares this opinion with the blacksmith. Evidently, this man is a true craftsman, for the leather he uses for the hilt’s grip is soft, padded enough so as not to cause discomfort, yet firm enough to hold up to a lot of use. And while the weapon is not overly decorated, its simple excellency speaks for itself.

“Well? Are ye satisfied, witcher?” The blacksmith doesn’t sound _nervous_ per se, but rather eager— he recognizes that Geralt is a true swordsman, and he wants due recognition for his work.

Geralt nods firmly and sheathes the sword at his hip (he will have to think of a way to alter his sword harness later). “Very, thank you. It’s good work.”

The blacksmith grins.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“Oho, look at those beasties!” The witcher freezes momentarily and nearly doesn’t get out of the way in time. A splatter of liquid acid flies past his face, and Geralt grimaces. _Of all the fucking times for the fae to show up again_. The last gasp of winter’s chill has ceased, and each day grows warmer and longer and greener. He has just passed from Temeria into Sodden.

The Archespore, of the brown variety thankfully, screeches. Then it disappears into the ground. He senses Jaskier approaching from behind, and for a moment, Geralt’s hand flutters toward the iron sword, but he decides against drawing it. _I don’t have time for this!_ “Get back!” he warns the fae, darting behind a tree as the Archespore pod explodes.

Jaskier reappears beside him, and the witcher barely bites down on a frustrated growl. But it seems that his companion poses no immediate threat so his gaze returns to the clearing. Geralt scans the space for any sign of the cursed plant and waits.

The fae’s sudden movement, caught in his peripheral vision, is startling. “What is that thing?” Jaskier asks, now standing far too close.

“An Archespore,” he replies tersely. “Very dangerous. They shoot poison darts along with acid, and grow on land where there’s been terrible bloodshed.” The fae grins, evidently delighted by this tidbit of information. Geralt swallows his disgust. “Go away, Jaskier. You’re distracting me—”

Without warning, the Archespore reappears a few feet behind them. The witcher dives forward and lops off the plant’s head. But not before it’s able to release a stream of acid, which he narrowly avoids, and several thorns. One of which gets embedded in his arm. “Fuck!” Geralt hisses, eyes screwing shut at the venom’s tingling burn, and the shrieking of his stabbed-through muscles. He grips the thorn at its base and yanks. The thorn slips through his fingers and falls to the forest floor, smearing the grass with his blood.

Somewhere above him, the fae makes a distressed sound.

The witcher opens his eyes and pushes himself up to his feet using his good arm. Geralt quickly stabs the cursed plant’s head with his silver blade for good measure, then tugs his sword out of the dirt. His left arm is already going numb, and an inescapable _sour_ taste covers his tongue. _That’s not good_. Muttering unsavory things under his breath, Geralt paces across the clearing, avoiding the puddles of still-steaming acid around the exploded Archespore pod, and finds his potions bag. The witcher begins fumbling around inside for a bottle of Golden Oriole.

Among all this, he loses track of Jaskier.

As the fae crouches beside him, he abruptly feels nauseous at the overpowering smell of magic. “Allow me,” Jaskier offers.

Geralt blinks, confused for a moment. Then he remembers: _the Fay can heal_ , and he shakes his head. “No. I won’t be indebted to you; I know how these things work.” The witcher has heard plenty of stories, _and_ read enough eye-witness accounts, to know what traditionally happens to those who incur a debt to one of the Fair Folk. It’s never anything good. He does his best to ignore the insistent look which burns the side of his downcast face.

Or maybe the sensation is caused by the venom. He grimaces.

“ _Look at me, Witcher_ ,” the fae orders. Blankly, Geralt obeys. As soon as he does, the witcher feels captured by the brilliant blue pool of Jaskier’s eyes. He tastes the fizz of magic on his tongue. After a moment, he shakes his head and attempts to shift away, apprehension increasing. _Will he count this as a debt if I clearly didn’t ask for it?_ The very last thing Geralt needs is to give Jaskier more power over him. But just as he finally breaks free, the fae growls. This sends a rush of adrenaline crashing down his spine.

“ _Hold still_ ,” Jaskier commands coolly. Geralt stills again— completely.

Apparently satisfied that his influence is holding, Jaskier leans forward to inspect the witcher’s wound. He lets out a puff of air when he sees the damage. Geralt wills his body to obey his mind’s commands, to no avail. He remains as motionless as if he were stone. For a few moments, he becomes distracted by the feel of Jaskier’s fingers ripping open his armored sleeve. Then a more pressing concern becomes apparent: he’s not breathing.

Once he notices, Geralt’s hands long to reach up to his throat and ‘free’ himself from the breathless feeling. His chest throbs and his lungs scream _too empty_. Panic claws at the witcher’s brain and his only thought is, _I need air!_ Willing his diaphragm to expand and contract does nothing. Jaskier’s magic is wrapped too tightly around him. The panic-tinged discomfort increases and his ears begin to ring. Spots appear in his vision, and the witcher’s heartbeat roars, nearly drowning out the low murmur of Jaskier’s chanting. Slight tremors wrack his body.

“All done!” Jaskier announces cheerfully, oblivious to the witcher’s state.

Then the invisible vise-grip vanishes and he raggedly gulps air as if it’s Toussaint’s best red. A long moment passes, only spent filling his lungs. After he has regained his breath, Geralt’s throat aches. There is a faint, lingering throb in his diaphragm, and buzzing panic distorts his senses. _Fuck. He nearly killed me!_ And the scariest thing is that the fae hadn’t even noticed.

Geralt snarls, lurches stiffly to his feet, and draws his iron sword.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The silence is cut by the shrill ring of metal being unsheathed. For a moment, Jaskier’s face is still caught in a self-pleased expression. It drains from his face terrifyingly quickly, replaced by a spine-tingling mask of apprehension. Geralt strides forward, his muscles seeming eager to prove their renewed faithfulness. The scant ground between them is eaten rapidly. Geralt’s blade, smelling of St. John’s Wort, is held up to Jaskier’s neck.

“Listen closely, fae,” he spits irately, yellow eyes molten. “When I remove this sword, you are going to leave here and never return. If I see your face again, I will kill you. Understood?”

Jaskier does not blink, his expression doesn’t waver, and he doesn’t stink of fear as any other being who is being mortally threatened might. “But I healed you!” the fae protests, bringing a hand up slowly as if to touch the blade at his neck. The witcher presses the sword-tip forward. Jaskier hisses as it makes contact with his skin and his brow crumples from pain. His skin makes a faint sizzling noise. The hand lowers, and Geralt removes the blade.

“You nearly fucking killed me! Twice!” he shouts, feeling slightly unhinged by the unease which bubbles up at the memory.

Jaskier looks wounded. “I- I did?” he asks softly.

“Yes! If I had been a normal man, I would’ve been rendered unconscious, at best, because of your carelessness.” The witcher’s grip shakes a bit, and he unintentionally touches the fae’s neck again. Jaskier shudders and takes a tiny step back. Then his expression darkens. _Oh no_. Beneath Geralt’s feet, grass grows rapidly. Before it reached the edge of his boots, now it’s at his ankles. The numberless green blades twist around them with enough strength that he feels the leather of his boots compress slightly. _Fuck_.

“Well, I guess if you don’t want my help then I’ll leave, and good luck to _you_ , witcher!” In a flash, Jaskier vanishes.

The grass stays wrapped around Geralt’s ankles, though it no longer _squeezes_. He swiftly cuts himself loose, picks up his potions bag, and scoops out a handful of salt. The witcher returns to Roach without gathering the Archespore’s severed head; survival is more important than money. Geralt blinks as his horse’s form becomes visible. He has no recollection of the walk here, mind too caught up in whirling chaos. He frowns. _I guess Vesemir will have to wait._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with an awesome cover! Artist credit goes to: [Isabelle_lesteplume](https://instagram.com/isabelle_lesteplume?igshid=1s9otxrfudu5v). Check out her other work on Instagram. Thank you so much, Isabelle <3.


	2. Development

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt goes to Yennefer for help. Jaskier comes back. 
> 
> A.k.a. plants are spooky.

It takes him a week to reach the village where Yennefer has set herself up. By the time he’s halfway there, Geralt swears that he will never touch salt again, no matter _how_ bland a meal is. His fingertips feel continuously dry and gritty from constantly sprinkling the mineral around the perimeter of his campsites, and his nose burns from its scent too. He is pretty sure that Roach is sick of the salt as well— whenever she tries to eat it, Geralt stops her, perhaps more harshly than is normal. But it is vital that his circles remain unbroken. As long as they are, Jaskier can’t get to him.

Every time the witcher hears a sound, he freezes momentarily. A breeze rustling through the trees and underbrush causes Geralt’s gaze to dart wildly from branch to branch, in case any plants are suddenly reaching for him (though many things about the… _incident_ with Jaskier bother him, the grass silently creeping over his body is definitely the most disturbing). If a squirrel chitters, or deer steps on a twig, his hands fly to his swords. Geralt sleeps, but more often than not he wakes to fading images of deep, dark bodies of water, freezing cold, breathlessness. He begins taking the iron sword with him to his bed roll at night. It’s uncomfortable, but he no longer dreams of drowning most of the time.

Portals suddenly don’t seem so terrible anymore.

**• ~ * ~ •**

This newest house which Yennefer has taken over is even bigger and grander than the last. He nearly rolls his eyes as a wave of affection sweeps through him upon seeing it. _Typical of her_ , Geralt thinks. He brings Roach around to the stable, passes off her care to the teenaged stable hand in attendance, and goes to knock on the door. Yennefer herself answers. “Geralt. What brings you to my humble abode?”

He snorts at the biting sarcasm there and tries to ignore the warmth which it kindles in his chest. _She’s not yours any longer, and that’s a good thing_. “I’ve heard that you’re the one to come to for magical problems. I’ve got a magical problem.”

“Ah, I see. I suppose you had better come inside then.”

“I suppose I had.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Yen leads them purposefully through the luxurious, if dimly-lit, halls, proving how well she knows him. Other people may have shown the witcher to a guest room and encouraged him to have a bath and perhaps a nap first before catching up. Not Yen. The sorceress knows that business always comes first for Geralt— she’s largely the same way. So instead, she takes him to the study.

The room is full of thick tomes, some in languages which he can’t read. There are velvet curtains, held back by ropes, which lets the gray afternoon sunlight stream through the large windows. A thick, ornately patterned rug covers much of the floor, and the wood that is exposed is well cared for and smooth. The whole space is warm— there’s a large fire in the decorative fireplace, contained by a delicate metal grate. He whistles. “Quite the set-up you’ve got here.”

Yen smiles, then mutters something under her breath. The chair in front of her desk pulls itself out for him. As he walks over, the sorceress sorts through the piles of parchment atop her desk and tucks a few errant books into its drawers. As Geralt, still in full armor, takes a seat, Yen does as well.

“Tell me what brought you here, Geralt,” she requests, business-like.

He swallows, taking a moment to gather his thoughts from the muck of his travel-weary, worried mind. _Where to even begin?_ “Well, a couple of weeks ago, I may have gained myself an… admirer. Of the Fair Folk variety.”

One of Yennefer’s shapely black eyebrows rises. “A fae? You’ve gotten involved with the Fay? Gods above, please tell me it wasn’t for some _fucking_ contract—”

Geralt grimaces. “Actually, it kind of was... I was tracking down a Leshen and must have stepped into a fae ring accidentally, or something. The fae showed up a little while after that. Now he won’t leave me alone, and I think I might have made him angry.” _He nearly choked me_ , Geralt doesn’t say.

Yen’s other eyebrow joins the first in an expression of exasperated incredulity. For a moment, she really _looks_ at Geralt, takes in the shadows under his eyes, the roughly tied-up dirty hair, and the third sword on his back. She does not look happy. “Oh, Geralt—”

“I know that they’re not to be trusted, Yen. _I know_. I came here because I need your help protecting myself from whatever havoc he wants to wreak in my life!”

Yennefer is silent for a long moment after his outburst. She’s silent for long enough that he considers apologizing; Geralt knows that he isn’t the most socially-adept person even at the best of times, let alone now when he’s exhausted and worried. He can take care of himself well enough usually, but fighting magic-wielders is not something he’s well-equipped to do.

But Yen finally answers. And he gets a shock when she does. “ _I’m_ part-Elf, Geralt!”

The witcher blinks. _Oh shit_. Though it’s… complicated, Elves are members of the Fay race. “You never told me that.”

Yennefer huffs, closing her violet eyes. An uncharacteristically vulnerable expression crosses her face, and she grimaces. “That’s because I haven’t told anyone— voluntarily— save for a few of my peers.” She laughs. It is not a happy sound. _And now she probably regrets telling me_ , Geralt thinks harshly. He feels like a gaping asshole.

The witcher swallows again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” he sighs. “I’ve had a long week.” _And I think that a fae may want to murder me now_. Aside from the mortification swirling through his gut, Geralt’s predominant emotion is confusion.

While some species may be much more difficult to like, he does try not to _hate_ any. Geralt understands, perhaps more than most, how lies and propaganda spread, as well as the malicious motives of those behind them. He knows what it feels like to face prejudice. _But the Elves, even if they do not harbor kind thoughts towards Humans, have not usually been as deliberately cruel to them as the Fay have_. “But that’s no excuse.” Shame burns deep in his gut.

Geralt keeps his gaze downcast, and the crackling of the fire is loud in the long, unpleasant silence.

Finally, Yennefer sighs. “I understand. The Fay don’t always do a good job of making themselves appear friendly towards Humans.” He looks up. Though the statement is neutral, and Yennefer’s body language gives nothing away, the witcher knows that he has fucked up. And he can’t help but fixate on the fact that she’d included _witchers_ as members of the Human race as well.

“Humans don’t do much to make themselves amicable to the Fay either,” he acknowledges.

Yennefer’s responding smile is small and tense, but it’s there. “No. I suppose not... now tell me what’s been happening with this troublesome fae.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

That first night at Yen’s, he nearly goes to bed with the iron sword still strapped on his back. But the sorceress asks to see the blade so she can experiment with it, hoping to find a way to enchant the weapon so it protects Geralt further. He stays silent for a moment, waging an internal battle with the massive tidal wave of unease that comes with the notion of being weaponless (or rather, less-armed) for the night. Finally, he says, “Just don’t break it” and gently hands Yennefer the sword.

She takes it carefully, meeting his eyes for a long moment. Though Yen has not yet asked a single question about the details of what happened, he suspects that she probably already knows, or has suspicions, that it was something bad. Yen turns away and walks down the hall— likely toward her lab. “Get some rest, Geralt,” she calls over her shoulder.

Though the witcher doubts his ability to do so, he still replies: “Will do.”

Unexpectedly, when he does finally sink into the guest room’s insanely soft bed, pulling the covers over his for-once unarmored body, Geralt actually manages to fall asleep. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that he is under the roof, and protection, of an extremely powerful sorceress that does the trick. _Maybe if I never leave Yen’s again there’ll be no problem_ , he thinks illogically just before nodding off.

**• ~ * ~ •**

A loud knock wakes Geralt the next morning. He jerks upright, taking a long, confused moment to recall where he is. The witcher glances quickly out the window and is surprised to see a bright, gray-blue sky and strong mid-morning sunlight streaming through it. It’s late. A _lot_ later than he usually allows himself to sleep in.

“Master Witcher, Sir? Mistress Yennefer has called you down for breakfast,” says the muffled voice of a female servant.

Geralt pulls a clean shirt over his head, puts yesterday’s pants on, and hastily opens the door. “Lead the way.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Yennefer is sitting at the head of an unnecessarily large oak table before a decadent spread of food: scrambled eggs, sausages, potatoes, and a loaf of oven-warm bread. Besides all this, there is a still-steaming kettle of tea. His mouth waters and his stomach rumbles. It has been a while since he’s had anything to eat but road fare, much less something as delicious as what’s before him, _for free_.

“Geralt,” Yen greets, looking up from the book she’d been skimming through with a furrowed brow. It’s only then that he notices what she’s wearing: a dark purple— nearly black— silk robe, with thick lines of violet embroidery around the edges, in the shape of flowers. Somehow, it manages to compliment both her eyes and hair. He has to take a moment to regain his thoughts.

“Expecting company?” the witcher quips.

The sorceress rolls her eyes and sets aside the book. “Only you. Come sit and eat; we’ve got a lot of work to do today.” Geralt nods, taking a seat at Yennefer’s side. Then he helps himself to a substantial serving of food and a cup of tea. The first bite reveals that everything tastes just as good as it looks

“What’s the book about?” he asks, after a few moments.

“It’s a compendium on the Fair Folk— borrowed it from one of my associates from Aretuza.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

“Do you know if your fae is Seelie or Unseelie?” Yennefer inquires randomly a few days into his stay.

He pauses to consider the question. “Seelie, I think.” Though his interactions with the fae have been… less than pleasant, Geralt cannot _imagine_ how Jaskier’s actions could have been those of a member of the Unseelie Court, who are infamous for their ill-will and general distaste for Humans, or even the non-Unseelie members of their species.

Yen nods. “Hmm. Well, that complicates things a bit. Thank you, Geralt.”

She leaves him alone for the next few hours.

**• ~ * ~ •**

In total, he spends a week with Yennefer. Mostly the witcher just tries to stay out of her way as the sorceress attempts to find some sort of magical fix for his problem. This gives Geralt ample opportunity to think. His time beneath Yen’s roof and protection _also_ put him in a better headspace to do said thinking. Being safe and well-rested allows the witcher to look back on what had happened with fresh eyes. So he uses the time to really consider his— and Jaskier’s— actions.

In the privacy of the guest room, Geralt rolls up the sleeve of his shirt (he hasn’t worn armor for _five whole days_ now) and twists his bicep slightly so that he can get a better look at the spot where the Archespore’s poisonous thorn hit him. There is barely a mark, and it takes him a while to find it. If he hadn’t received the wound so recently, he may not have even noticed it at all. The skin seems long-healed as if the witcher had been injured there during one of his ealier years on the Path and not mere weeks ago. He has enough scars for comparison to know that this is true. All that’s really left is a small, smooth, and slightly paler pucker mark. Despite himself, he is impressed.

Geralt runs a thumb absently over the spot as he thinks: _Perhaps I was too harsh on Jaskier_.

Maybe he was. But when Geralt thinks back on that moment, after the Archespore fight, he shivers, and his mind shies away from the memory. Sure, he has faced death before— plenty of times, in fact— but he usually has at least a sliver of a chance of escape (as evidenced by his continual survival). That time, what Jaskier had (unintentionally) had done to him, there was no fighting it. The fae’s raw power had kept him completely immobile and would have continued to do so until he’d actually passed out and probably died thereafter.

That scares him.

Jaskier seems not exactly callous, but— unconcerned. Not cognizant of exactly _how much_ of an impact said power really has on less-powerful beings, such as Geralt. The witcher deals with hypotheticals all the time in his profession. If he had had a contract on a being similar to Jaskier (not that he believes there is _any_ being similar to the fae), he would almost certainly lean towards destroying it. But then again, Jaskier had not _intended_ to harm him, quite the opposite in fact.

Geralt blinks, wincing when he realizes that he’s rubbed a sore spot in his arm. _It doesn’t exactly matter what I think about all this_ , he tells himself, _because Jaskier is gone. And if I see him again, it’ll undoubtedly be under less-than-pleasant circumstances_. He grimaces, recalling the sound of the fae’s flesh burning at the slightest touch of his blade, Jaskier’s dark expression just before he vanished. No, the fae certainly won’t be pleased to see Geralt again. And that is entirely his doing.

Hopefully, whatever Yennefer comes up with is powerful enough to help him ~~if~~ when he needs it.

**• ~ * ~ •**

On the day he finally departs, Yennefer comes to breakfast somewhat late. Her appearance is care-worn and exhausted, but she radiates satisfaction. The sorceress’s quick entrance is a triumphant one. Geralt stops eating and sits up. He feels hopeful. “What is it?”

Yen smirks, sinking into her usual spot like a content cat. She pushes a small box across the table towards him. “Open it.”

Geralt quirks a brow, unable to stop a small smile from spreading across his lips. _Always a flair for the dramatic_. He pushes aside his plate and pulls the box forward, undoing the ribbon tied around it. Inside is a small necklace— _too pretty to be called a ‘medallion,’_ he thinks— made of thin, interconnected metallic chains (iron), with a coin-sized pendant. The pendant is etched with a delicate design, including an outline of Elder script, flowing around its circumference.

As he holds it up, a pulsation of power runs through him, and Geralt nearly shivers.

“I—” he starts to say. _It’s too much. Hopefully it will be enough. How can I ever repay you for a gift like this?_ The witcher takes a calming breath. _Not_ saying anything in this moment would be unacceptable. “Thank you, Yen. This is… well I don’t actually know what it is, but it must’ve taken a lot of work to make. Thank you.”

Yen’s smile goes soft, as it rarely does around him anymore, and she gives one, curt nod. “I decided not to waste time fiddling with your sword, and came up with… this. If I were to explain the details, you’d be here for another week— all you need to know is that it acts as a concentrated version of your Yrden and Quen signs. I’d advise you not to take it off for the foreseeable future,” she tells him.

Then, uncharacteristically, the sorceress sighs, and a flicker of doubt appears in her eyes. Despite himself, Geralt tenses. “I don’t know exactly _what_ happened— and no, you don’t need to tell me— but I know it wasn’t good. Gods willing, this little experiment of mine will keep you safe.”

He blinks, throat feeling uncomfortably constricted— in a non-lethal, though no less dangerous way. “Thanks, Yen. For everything.”

She merely smiles and gestures to the array of food before them. “One more meal before you go?”

**• ~ * ~ •**

His return to the Path is not unusual in any way, which is relieving.

If anything, it is slightly more pleasant than the other times when something (often an injury) forces him from the Path temporarily. On this occasion, he has… if not the reassurance, then the strong suspicion, that he will be safer now thanks to Yennefer’s assistance. Following her advice, Geralt doesn’t remove the necklace for anything, even bathing. At first, he fears that it will rust, but it seems that Yen’s taken care of that concern too. He smiles. She’s always been very thorough when a task appeals to her sensibilities.

As Geralt continues south, the weather warms further, and he sees the first blooms begin to appear.

Eventually, he picks up a contract: Grave Hags in Velen. Fighting in the swamps of this area is never an enjoyable experience, and neither are the kinds of monsters who devour the dead. But the job, though still difficult, is not as unpleasant as it could have been— _has been_ , in the past. Geralt suspects that he owes this to Yen’s necklace; Grave Hags are especially susceptible to both Yrden and Quen, after all. He collects his pay and moves on.

Several weeks later, Geralt makes his way into the true southern reaches of the Continent. As he does, the climate becomes more hospitable, the game more abundant, and the locals less afeared of a lone, passing witcher. In the dark— and beneath the strong masking aroma of other flowers— he doesn’t notice the nearby patch of Foxgloves while setting up camp for the night.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Geralt wakes to the uncomfortable sensation of too-warm metal at his throat.

As he blearily opens his eyes, he realizes that the strange, implacable, high-pitched whine filling the air probably has something to do with his waking as well. Then he realizes that both the heat _and_ sound emanate from his necklace. The witcher’s eyes snap open and it’s only then that he notices the thin, vaguely-purple aura of the magical shield surrounding him. It isn’t very large— probably extending only an inch or so out from his body— but it’s enough to keep the encroaching vines, roots, and grass off of him. For now.

“Oh _fuck_!” He stands hastily, straining against the plants’ hold. Geralt reaches for a sword— any of his swords— and feels a moment of panic as he finds that the creeping plants have grasped his arms with enough force to make the shield tremble. Though he cannot feel their grip, the witcher can imagine all too well how much damage they’ll do to him if they break through Yen’s protection.

He swallows, finding that the indent indicating where he’d been lying is already gone; his feet, and most of his legs, are already covered in various flora as well.

Trying to get _out_ of the mess is one of the most frustrating things Geralt has ever done. It’s not as if there is any ‘safe’ space for him to tread either— everywhere he steps there are _more_ plants, all fighting to entangle him. By the time the witcher finally frees his hands enough to grasp a sword, most of his lower body is— uncomfortably— covered in nature. Geralt swallows, wipes the sweat from his brow, and starts hacking.

He finally makes it to a small patch of rocky dirt, barely large enough for him to take a step in either direction. Geralt pants, grimacing as the magical shield shudders again. But it holds. He sends an experimental burst of Igni at the encroaching grass, but it does almost nothing, only releases a foul stench. _Just as I thought_. His stomach feels leaden. Whatever’s controlling the landscape is magical. Which means—

“You know, I’m almost more curious about how you know somebody who’s powerful enough to make something like _that_ , than annoyed by your persistence,” Jaskier says. The fae pouts momentarily, then walks across the empty space between them, grass and roots gently subsiding as he passes by.

Geralt swallows down a bolt of panic— because _oh fuck, of course it’s him_ — and raises his iron sword. “Jaskier, I—”

A particularly insistent root forces the witcher to bite his tongue.

While he is not exactly _reluctant_ to harm the fae, neither does the witcher want unnecessary bloodshed. Unfortunately, their previous interaction seems to have made this an impossibility. As Jaskier circles him, eyes gleaming with a terrifying blend of curiosity and animosity, he spins around as well, sword held aloft and ready. Geralt would like to keep all his attention on the fae, but part of his energy must stay on his feet; leaving the small island of safety would not bode well for him—

He would hate to be defeated because he tripped, of all things.

Jaskier disappears.

Geralt swivels, scanning wildly for any sign of him. His movements are not quick enough to avoid the brush of the fae’s fingers. A bright purple flash abruptly appears before his eyes, and he is left blinking away spots. Jaskier hisses. As Geralt’s vision returns, he sees the fae shaking his fingers as if he’s been burned. Despite how unpleasant the sensation must be, Jaskier laughs. He is no less threatening for it. “Oh, that is some rather excellent warding. Hmm, it seems we’ve reached an impasse then.”

“An impasse,” the witcher echoes. _What does that mean?_

The fae stops circling and faces Geralt head-on. “Well, you see, Witcher, an impasse is where neither party is strong enough to defeat—”

“I _know_ what an impasse is!” he snaps. “I want to know what you think happens next.” _Hopefully not an impromptu fae-on-witcher siege_.

The fae scowls momentarily, and then his expression turns serious. Jaskier’s long fingers slowly come up to the collar of his doublet and he jerks it away from his skin. The witcher blinks, confused for a moment as to what he’s meant to be seeing. Then he finds _it_. On the left side of Jaskier’s neck, just above the elegant bump of his collar bone, is a patch of slightly raised, discolored skin. A scar. _Oh_. Geralt recalls, suddenly, how the fae’s face had spasmed in pain as his iron sword had touched him. _I didn’t think I could really hurt him_.

Jaskier’s hands, just as abruptly as they had tugged aside the material of his shirt, release it. The small disfigurement is hidden once again. “Take it off,” the fae says.

Geralt frowns for a moment, not understanding what’s being requested of him. Then he does. “ _No_.”

“While I can’t reach you— yet— you’re still at a disadvantage, Geralt. Humans, Witchers, they need to sleep, do they not? How long can you resist that necessity? I can stay here as long as needed. When you _do_ succumb— and you will— I’ll be waiting. If I can’t harm you directly, I can still make your life unpleasant. Think it over.”

The witcher gnashes his teeth, biting back a string of curses. The fae is right.

Although Geralt is able to forego sleep for much longer than an average person, he will, eventually, need to rest. Even before that becomes necessary, his body will require food and water. If he were able to meditate, he could delay having to fulfill those needs somewhat. But the problem is that trying to meditate now leaves him as vulnerable to being _buried alive_ as sleeping would. It seems that his only options are to fight Jaskier (who isn’t getting close enough for that) or to accept the fae’s terms.

“Why?” he finally grits out.

“Trust,” Jaskier says. “It’ll show that you harbor no ill-will towards me.”

Geralt briefly closes his eyes and exhales. _Fuck. This is probably the stupidest thing that I’ll ever do_. A part of him wonders why the fae came back in the first place. But that is a question for later. Sincerely hoping that he’s not about to be ripped apart by fucking plants— or made to dance until he falls down dead, or some other bullshit— he opens his eyes and fixes the fae with a serious look. “Alright, I’ll take it off— but I’m not letting go of the necklace or my swords.”

Jaskier stares back at him for a moment, then inclines his head slightly. “Fair enough.”

The witcher inhales deeply, steeling himself for what he’s about to do. He can picture with crystal clarity _exactly_ what Vesemir— hell, Eskel and Lambert too— would have to say about his choices. But Geralt has always been good at doing what needs to be done, personal feelings or consequences be damned. _Well here it goes. Hope I’m not about to die horribly_.

Keeping a firm grip on his iron sword, Geralt awkwardly frees the necklace from beneath his hair, then brings it up his neck and over his head. As he does, the necklace’s baseline hum increases in pitch, as if it is straining to continue protecting him. Finally, with one tug, the witcher’s neck is bare and the vague purple tint to his vision disappears. It’s a lot quieter too.

Geralt’s fist clenches around the necklace as he tries to keep Jaskier in his sights, dark as it may be. A sudden noise has the witcher’s heart leaping into his throat and his sword-arm raising automatically. But it’s just a clump of roots and grass resettling themselves. When Geralt looks again, the ground appears to be normal. The witcher swallows and his eyes return to the fae.

Jaskier’s cool, assessing gaze makes him awfully nervous, but Geralt doesn’t look away from it. Instead he stays as he is: motionless, but ready to act. Finally, the fae’s expression ripples, and the calculating undertone disappears. He bows once to Geralt, and then he’s gone. The witcher releases the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, shoves the necklace down over his head again with a shaky hand, and packs up his camp quickly; even if he’s come to no harm tonight, Geralt is not staying here.

It takes much longer for his nerves to settle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite sure how the magical necklace would work, but that’s the beauty of AUs! 
> 
> And, yes, Geralt has some things to learn, but never fear— he’s gonna learn them (eventually).


	3. Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things settle down between Geralt and Jaskier for the most part, until the fae shares some unsettling news... Eskel and the other Wolf School witchers make an appearance, and so does a ~~concerned~~ angry Yen.

Geralt limps forward with a groan. He keeps one arm wrapped around his ribs and winces. Something grinds wetly inside his chest with every breath, but it doesn’t feel like he’s punctured anything— which is good. However, the witcher is fairly positive that two of his ribs are fully cracked. Swallow will help him some, but his existence will remain rather unpleasant until he’s healed fully.

After managing to progress a few more feet, he has to stop again, feeling quite light-headed and in a large amount of pain. It’s extremely difficult to keep one’s chest still when movement is necessary for breathing, after all. He slowly props himself up against a nearby tree. _Fuck Griffins_ , Geralt thinks uncharitably. Of course, it’s probably his fault for being foolish enough to be picked up by one.

But then again, he hadn’t been told that there were _two_ of them.

The noble who had posted the contract is, apparently, a notorious cheapskate. This is a fact which he had unfortunately learned only _after_ being carried off by the surprise second Griffin; Yennefer’s necklace had offered some protection, but apparently not enough to dissuade a Griffin from swooping down on him. It had also done nothing to save Geralt from the effects of a fall from some height.

The thing which _had_ saved him was his remaining sword. He’d been able to stab the beast in its stomach, forcing it to release him. As a result, he’d landed— rather inelegantly and _painfully_ — in the upper canopy of a tree. But Geralt is alive, and for a witcher, that’s the only thing which matters. So he tells himself: _get on with it_ , and pushes off the tree with a mild, “Fuck.”

The spot where he made camp is not much farther— in addition to hemming and hawing over payment, the noble had made his inhospitality abundantly clear. Finally, he spots Roach, who nickers in greeting, glad to see her owner (relatively) unharmed. “Hey girl,” he murmurs. She gently bumps her head against his chest, making him wince. “Ooff.” _That settles it_. With a tired huff, Geralt shimmies out of his sword harness, tucks Yen’s necklace into his pocket, and begins the arduous process of removing his armor without twisting around too much.

• ~ * ~ •

Per usual, there is little warning before the fae’s arrival: only a strong surge of magic in the air and his medallion’s rumbling. Geralt pauses, shirt only half on. Strands of still-damp hair cling to his shoulders, sending cool rivulets of water down his spine— not that the witcher really needs _more_ help shivering. He’d taken a dip in the river earlier and is now redressing enough to tend to his wounds.

For a moment, Geralt considers whether he should put Yen’s necklace— which he really needs to think of a better name for— back on or not, but decides against it. Though it’s been nearly two months since their last encounter, the witcher still remembers the tension of their previous interaction perfectly. How could he not? _“Trust,” Jaskier had said. “It’ll show that you harbor no ill-will towards me.”_ Geralt leaves the necklace in his pocket. However, he does pull his shirt on quickly, wincing in discomfort.

“Geralt.” Jaskier is standing at the edge of his camp, looking somewhat wary. He’s still, body tensed as if in preparation to bolt. Yet his gaze is also open and slightly curious. Oh. Right. _I’m still sitting_. Geralt huffs quietly, thinking regretfully, _Getting up is going to hurt_. But everything will be less awkward if Jaskier doesn’t have to keep staring down at him. It will also, possibly, make his metaphorical hackles lower a bit.

The witcher wishes that he’d taken the time to patch himself up beforehand, because now he’ll have to wait until after the fae leaves to do it. After all, there’s a difference between not actively trying to kill one another and peace... Somehow, Geralt is able to get to his feet by pushing off with his legs. He grimaces as he stands fully-upright. “Jask— ier.”

For a moment, they merely observe one another like a pair of village fools. _Why did I get up again?_ Geralt isn’t sure what the ‘protocol’ is when one is playing host to an extraordinarily powerful, possibly-antagonistic member of the Fair Folk. Maybe he’ll write a manual for other witchers unfortunate enough to find themselves in a similar situation. _I’ll leave it to Yennefer so she can assist other hypothetical witchers—_

Another zing of pain snaps him back to awareness. _Fuck_. _I’m not in the right headspace for this_.

Geralt blinks, realizing that he’s been staring off into nothingness, leaving himself vulnerable to attack like a newly-minted fool. _Gods damn it_. As the witcher’s attention returns to the fae, he makes a quick study of his expression: appraising, bordering on concerned. Jaskier meets his eyes, raising one eyebrow. _I don’t know what to make of that_. He settles with a simple: “What are you doing here?”

Jaskier sighs, a bit dramatically, then sinks smoothly to the ground. He folds his legs in a way that makes Geralt wince. But the position seems comfortable enough for the fae. As Jaskier gazes up at him, the witcher realizes that now _he_ has to sit back down too. And after he went through all that effort to stand up.

It goes well until the last few inches between him and the ground. Geralt more or less ends up throwing himself down clumsily, and can’t bite back a pained hiss. He blinks dazedly for a moment, completely forgetting about Jaskier’s presence— which is something he will chew himself out for later— and nearly jumps out of his own fucking skin when he feels hands brush over his side.

“You’re hurt,” the fae says softly.

 _Aw shit_. The witcher shifts to put a few inches between them and growls, quite forgetting that the being before him cannot be intimidated by such tactics, “I’m fine. It’s nothing.” He puts as much assuredness into the statement as possible, already feeling unease prickling his mind, along with pain. This situation is quickly becoming far too similar to the last time Jaskier ‘healed’ him. He swallows rapidly.

The fae, still crouched down beside him, flutters his hands over Geralt. “You’re really _not_ ,” he murmurs lowly and calmly. He leans forward, probably to put his hands on Geralt again, but the witcher shifts away, pulse fluttering quickly. It’s not _just_ that he has bad memories of the last time— he also doesn’t trust in magic much; even refusing to use Yen’s portals unless absolutely necessary, and they’ve known each other for _years_.

Jaskier blurs, vanishes, and reappears so close to Geralt’s side that if he exhales, they’ll probably touch.

With this proximity, the haze of magic is practically visible; he can nearly taste it on his tongue too. Jaskier’s eyes are bright as the full moon glittering off a midnight tide and the witcher loses himself for a long moment. It’s enough time to allow the fae to grip his forearm and place his other hand on Geralt’s side, preventing him from moving away. He freezes. Jaskier’s eyes are filled with shadows, and his mouth dips into a tiny grimace before he speaks. “Please. Let me heal you.”

 _Fuck_ , Geralt thinks. _Fuck_. Flashbacks of the last time the fae tried to help play unbidden in the witcher’s head.

“I have all the supplies I need— your help is unnecessary,” he manages to spit out.

But Jaskier doesn’t withdraw. Instead, he sighs disappointedly. “Please _._ ” Geralt scowls. The witcher wants to believe that Jaskier has used his magic to persuade him, but his medallion moves no more than it normally does in the fae’s presence. He feels none of the spark of compulsion like he has before, and the air is no thicker for the use of magic. Therefore, it is entirely _him_ who changes his mind, probably unwisely.

“Fine.”

The fae nods, but his expression doesn’t waver from one of serious concentration. It is a different look than any he’s seen before on his face. Then Jaskier leans that final hair’s width forward and gently places both his hands over Geralt’s sides, just under his ribs. “Be still—” Jaskier catches himself, eyes flickering to the witcher’s face as Geralt lets out a slightly shaky huff, “Please.”

He nods, concentrating on not moving save for small, automatic motions like breathing.

• ~ * ~ •

“Why are you here?” he asks bluntly. The fae blinks, shifts a bit, and sighs. But he doesn’t answer. Geralt huffs, feeling thrown off for a moment that he _can_ huff and have it not hurt. Jaskier’s magic has almost completely healed him. There is but the faintest lingering ache in his chest. In a few days, he’s sure that even this hurt will be gone. It’s been at least an hour since the fae’s abrupt arrival.

At first, he had acquiesced to Jaskier’s insistence that it was important he stayed, to make sure nothing went awry with the magic— “I’ve never exactly used it on a Witcher before,” he’d said. Now the fae is reclining on the ground, one leg crossed over the other, hands supporting his head, watching the clouds. Geralt feels about an inch away from snapping, but continually reminds himself why it is vital that he doesn’t.

Despite his misleading appearance, Jaskier is an extremely powerful being. He only chooses to be kind because the witcher has given him no reason to act otherwise— their strange cease-fire is too tenuous for Geralt to take stupid chances with it. But exercising this much restraint is draining; he’s never been one for holding his tongue, even if it would perhaps be wiser. Speaking of running his tongue… _I still don’t have an answer_.

Just as the witcher is about to open his mouth again, Jaskier speaks: “I came to apologize.”

Geralt blinks. The moment feels surreal. “I— I’m sorry as well.”

Jaskier’s smile is oh so very soft. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t _intend_ to say anything else, but what comes out is, “What changed?”

The fae laughs those increasingly familiar bell chimes. It’s an amused sound, but also a bit of a rueful one, as far as he can tell. If the emotions behind a fae’s laughter can even be read the same as a human’s... Jaskier sighs. Silence falls between them for a moment. 

“Oh, I realized that I was acting exactly as my _mother_ often accuses me of being: irrational and impulsive. Petty. But I was angry, Geralt, so angry! At first, that you had been so ill-receptive of my freely given assistance, and later by the fact that you wounded me. Fay are very vain, and when one can control their appearance as we can… looks are everything. They are our choice. Taking that ability to choose— damaging one of us— is perceived as one of the most egregious offenses.

All I could think of was _my_ mistreatment, _my_ anger, _my_ hurt. So I intended to seek revenge. But then I saw how surprised you seemed that you’d harmed me, and I realized: we’d had a misunderstanding. After that, I took some time to cool off and think things over. I came to the conclusion that I’d been both colossally rude, and careless.”

The witcher blinks, once again thrown by the fae’s openness— something which he’s _never_ been. “I see.”

With that, Jaskier apparently decides that he’s been here for long enough. The fae stands abruptly, brushes off his clothes, and gives him a sharp nod. “See you around, Geralt.”

• ~ * ~ •

“You know…” Jaskier says, abruptly trailing off.

It’s been a few weeks since their heart-to-heart (Geralt scowls at that description, apt as it is), and the fae has taken to dropping in on him randomly. Unless the witcher is mistaken, Jaskier seems to think that they’ve become _friends_ or something now. Personally, he’s not sure what they are, but neither does Geralt see a point in disabusing the fae of the notion. He’s proven himself to be useful, as well as a decent conversationalist, now that he doesn’t want to _murder_ Geralt.

The witcher realizes that the fae never finished his sentence. “What?” he asks.

Jaskier blinks, evidently having forgotten that he had said anything at all. An expression that passes for a wry smile crosses his face as he looks over at the witcher. “By all rights, I’m honor-bound to kill you.”

Geralt blinks, going still. His swords feel far too far away, though they’re only feet from where he’s sitting. “Oh?” he prods cautiously. 

Jaskier snorts as if he’s just told a hilarious joke, eyes warm and mirthful. But the witcher feels no more comforted by this. “I won’t though, _obviously._ In case that was in any doubt.” Geralt blinks again, doing his best to shape his expression into something less apocalyptic. The fae must see his efforts, for he smiles reassuringly at him. “Just try not to attract the attention of any _other_ Fay— it should be fine then.”

Something wriggles in Geralt’s gut. The panic does not subside so much as it’s shoved down. “I’ll keep that in mind, I guess.”

Jaskier looks quite uncharacteristically serious for a moment as he meets Geralt’s eyes. “Please do.” Then he smiles brightly and changes the subject. The fae ends up staying for a good while after this— until the sky begins to darken and the witcher awkwardly admits that he’s hungry, and needs to go hunt. Later, Geralt remembers not a word of what they talked about after Jaskier’s warning. He lies awake for a long time that night, staring anxiously up at the distant, cold stars.

• ~ * ~ •

Summer reaches its zenith, and the land blooms. The witcher keeps Jaskier’s disconcerting words at the forefront of his mind as he makes camp and chooses contracts. Although the fae didn’t precisely say that there _is_ a price on his head, Geralt interprets his words that way for safety’s sake. Meaning that these days, he’s wary of any mushroom and avoids every Foxglove as if it carries the plague. He also buys another overlarge bag of salt and takes to sleeping with Yen’s necklace on.

Frustratingly, Jaskier remains scarce so he can’t exactly _ask_ him how long he needs to be cautious for, or to clarify the meaning of “It should be fine then.” That statement is as reassuring as it is detailed. In other words, not at all. And if the anwser is _forever_ , then he might just offer up his own head. 

As fall arrives, the flowers wilt, the mushrooms shrivel, and Geralt has a moment of internal celebration; never before has he looked forward so much to winter.

When the first frost comes and turns into a storm, which turns into snow, he knows that it’s time to return to Kaer Morhen. Geralt smiles, running a gauntleted hand through the few flakes which have fallen onto Roach’s back. _It’ll be good to see Eskel and Lambert again_. Vesemir too. He packs up his things, completes the year’s final contract, and heads north.

At the second-to-last village before reaching the keep, Geralt writes to Yennefer, informing her of his whereabouts, thanking her again for her gift ( _which works as intended)_ , and that he’d appreciate it immensely if she would send him more information on the Fair Folk. After thinking for a bit, he decides to end the letter there. The other things he needs to tell her are too important to share on parchment. Besides, Yen will take the statement, ‘I sometimes hang out with that fae who tried to kill me now’ better in person. Maybe. Until then, he’ll scour Kaer Morhen’s extensive library, or at least what remains of it.

• ~ * ~ •

Initially, Geralt intends to inform Vesemir and his brothers of his predicament and ask for their help as soon as he arrives. Though none of them are particularly brilliant, with four witchers’ worth of experience they should have enough combined wit to think of— if not a plan, then the beginnings of one. Although Yennefer’s necklace works, well, like a charm, it’s not infallible.

Sorcerers and sorceresses, _magic-users_ , for all their power, are not witchers. Meaning they have less experience with monsters or creatures of all sorts. When he thinks back on the one time he really depended on Yen’s necklace, Geralt realizes that Jaskier hadn’t even been trying that hard to harm him. So in a way, he still has no idea how effective it is against a fae attack.

But when Vesemir asks gruffly, “Have any particular troubles this year, boy?” Geralt only shakes his head.

“None in particular. Though there was one Griffin—”

• ~ * ~ •

The flaw in his plan, Geralt realizes, is that this is _his_ problem— potentially. If Jaskier had said that his actions would put an honor contract on _all_ witchers, then that would be a different matter. But the fae hadn’t said that, merely warned Geralt to be careful about attracting the attention of other Fair Folk. As far as the witcher knows, no one’s actually coming for him. Unless Jaskier himself told someone else, then no other fae should even be aware that Geralt ‘damaged’ him.

It’s also been months since the incident, and prior to that, before Jaskier, Geralt didn’t even believe that the Fay still existed (or ever had). So it seems somewhat improbable that anything more will happen. Yet a small part of him still wonders: _what if?_ And that is partly why he says nothing to Vesemir, Eskel, or Lambert. For if he is wrong and something does happen, then it’ll only happen to him and the others won’t be caught in the cross-fire. The Fay aren’t known for being forgiving or particularly controlled, but they are precise and devastating when enacting vengeance.

But, Geralt reminds himself, there’s been no sign of any Fair Folk apart from Jaskier, and he clearly isn’t seeking retribution. Besides, between his iron blade, the salt, St. John’s Wort, Yen’s necklace, and whatever other defenses he can come up with over the next few months, Geralt should be able to hold his own. He’s being overcautious by doing this research, by asking Yen to do some too.

There is one other flaw in his plan, however.

The flaw is that it feels like something seizes up inside him every time Geralt opens his mouth to confess what’s been going on. At first he wonders if this is somehow Jaskier’s doing— since the Fay _do_ exist, they evidently have effective methods for keeping themselves hidden— but he ultimately decides it isn’t. _Jaskier wouldn’t do that to me_ , he thinks. The witcher swiftly dismisses this thought as well. It’s not that he doesn’t believe the fae would magic him in such a way, but rather that he thinks he’d be able to tell if he had. And there is no evidence that Jaskier has meddled with Geralt in any way; save for how he’s healed him twice now.

Thus the witcher is forced to conclude that he simply has no desire to tell his fellow witchers about the fae. So he doesn’t.

• ~ * ~ •

Yennefer is irritated with him for not writing sooner, or at least that’s what he gathers from the tone of her correspondence. The sorceress first demands to know _how exactly_ he knows that the necklace works, and Geralt grimaces, upon reading that bit. _That’ll be a fun conversation_. Yen also lets him know, in no uncertain terms, that they will be meeting come spring: _At first melt, I’m sending a portal for you, Geralt. I would like to inspect my handiwork and make sure that the necklace is holding up. Yours truly, Yennefer_.

In addition to the letter, Yen includes a thick stack of notes— compiled from various texts which she has original copies of— containing more information on the Fay.

Geralt sighs, and his heart twinges as he reads between the lines: she’s worried about him. _Perhaps rightfully so_. He supposes that it would have been impossible to avoid telling Yen what’s been going on anyway. Truthfully, he wasn’t even planning to hide it from her forever; he’d just been counting on a little more time before confessing. Geralt begins writing a letter but keeps the details vague. One never knows when or by whom a private correspondence will be intercepted, after all. _This is a conversation that’s best had in-person_ , he writes.

That’s also what he tells himself to excuse the obvious delaying tactic.

• ~ * ~ •

Of course, when four very observant, active people are cooped up together for months on end, the other three will notice when one of their party begins acting oddly. “Any particular reason why you’ve been hitting the books like Vesemir’s about to quiz us on the entire monster compendium?” Eskel inquires one afternoon as Geralt is hunched over the reading desk yet again.

He looks up, casually closing the book in front of him as he does, and turns to look at his brother. Eskel is leaning against the nearest shelf, by all appearances at ease. But Geralt has known him for long enough to see the worry which lies beneath. He snorts, then smiles fondly at the other witcher. “Just brushing up on some things. Shall we go and find out how much better of a swordsman I am than you?”

The shadow in Eskel’s eyes disappears as his grin sharpens. “The reverse, you mean.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and reshelves the book. “Whatever you say, Eskel.”

• ~ * ~ •

At times, Geralt will catch himself thinking about the fae. It always surprises him when it happens because there’s really no reason for him to. Jaskier hasn’t made any of his unsurprisingly surprising appearances for several months now, and he’s no longer a threat— both in Geralt’s judgment and his own words. Whenever he gets in one of these moods, the witcher snorts, and tells himself firmly: _It’s just because he’s interesting_.

He’s been alive for a long time and lived a comparably unusual life. There’s not a lot which Geralt hasn’t seen, monster _or_ people-wise. Therefore, Jaskier is wildly— radically— shockingly different and unique. A literal splash of color against the muted grays and black of the witcher’s existence. He even looks different, and his ethereal beauty starkly contrasts Geralt’s own rough appearance.

It’s only that he’s got winter fever and Jaskier, because of his uniqueness, is a natural diversion for his mind to turn to.

Sometimes he thinks he even dreams of the fae. And _if_ he does, Geralt won’t admit it, even to himself. Or rather because his dreams only contain bits of Jaskier— a dreamscape’s sky will be the precise shade of blue as his eyes, there’ll bells pealing faintly in the wind, a fox grinning sharply at him— it is easy to deny that he’s dreamed of the fae at all. Besides, the witcher has been hyper-focused on all things Fair Folk recently with his research, so it’s logical that his subconscious would fixate on the only fae he knows personally. There is also the fact that, save for the most interesting of his nighttime landscapes, these dreams remain no more than dust, or cobwebs shimmering in the morning dew when he wakes.

Geralt never notices how his medallion trembles when he dreams like this.

• ~ * ~ •

Winter’s grip on the land and people of the Continent begins to slacken. Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert take turns riding out of the keep to check on the condition of the mountain passes. One final snowstorm blows in, and half-heartedly dumps several inches on Kaer Morhen. But within a few days, the snow has turned to mush. _Only a matter of time now_ , he thinks, almost nervously.

Sure enough, one crisp morning Eskel rides through the gates, crowing: “It’s melted!”

Geralt smiles bittersweetly and goes to join his brothers and Vesemir for one last breakfast before returning to the Path— or rather, visiting Yennefer and _then_ returning to the Path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *updates randomly without a complete draft of the next chapter* The plot thickens!


	4. Contracts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As winter comes to an end, it’s time for the witcher to make good on his promise to meet up with Yennefer. He does so and has several unpleasant conversations about what’s been going on. When Geralt finally returns to the Path, Jaskier makes a reappearance and he may (or may not) discover some startling information about the fae. 
> 
> He also takes on his first contract of the season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few nods to the books in this chapter— see if you can spot them.

He ends up staying at the keep for a few days longer. As has become tradition, Eskel and Lambert depart together. This time, however, Geralt is there to see them off. He stays back by the gates with Vesemir and watches until the others have both disappeared from view. It’s a rather odd experience, as he’s generally the last to arrive and the first to leave— that is _if_ Geralt happened to return to Kaer Morhen that year at all. Even after it’s just the two of them, Vesemir remains quiet, gaze turned to the forest. Eventually the old fencing master turns back to him. “Well, boy. Shall we go inside and have a drink?”

Geralt is a bit— okay _quite_ — surprised by this turn of events, but then he supposes that this could be one of Vesemir’s rituals, drinking by himself to dull the swiftly descending loneliness (if only temporarily) after watching ~~his sons~~ them leave. Perhaps the older witcher wonders whether he’ll see them next winter, or if he’ll be stuck with nothing but memories when he does. “Okay,” Geralt replies.

• ~ * ~ •

When the portal appears at midday, Geralt has all his things (including Roach’s saddlebags) packed already, so all he has to do is swallow the last bite of his sandwich, pull Vesemir into a quick hug and stoic goodbye, mutter a wary “Fuck” under his breath, and lead his horse into the unpredictable magical void. Fortunately for him and Roach, nothing goes wrong. At least not this time.

He’s not quite sure where they’ll be spit out— Yen is nearly as much of a wanderer as he is— but to his pleasant surprise, their destination is a familiar one. It’s the house he visited Yennefer at last time. As soon they’ve stepped clear of the portal it closes, and the grass and his hair instantly stop fluttering. The sorceress, dressed in a dark blue gown with small points of white— perhaps pearls or elaborate stitching— greets them with a smile. She runs a hand through Roach’s mane and asks, “Everything alright?”

Geralt huffs. “About as expected, given the method of transportation.”

Yen rolls her eyes. “You should be more appreciative, Geralt— I just saved you weeks of travel,” she calls over her shoulder while leading them to the stables. He doesn’t reply.

The stable hand is waiting for them, and Roach is swiftly unloaded and taken care of. Geralt tries to bring some of his bags with him into the house, but Yen stops him. “My servants can do that. Come, I understand you have some things to tell me.” The statement, while innocent enough, is accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a sharp look.

The witcher throws one last look at the saddlebags and sighs. “Yeah, I do.” He follows Yen inside.

• ~ * ~ •

They encounter a servant in the hall, and Yen stops her, asking that refreshments for the two of them be brought to the office. The woman, admirably, doesn’t blink at his appearance, even if there’s a nervous tinge to her sweat. “Yes’m,” she says, curtseying to the pair of them and scurrying off. They continue on their way without talking.

Although he’s been here before, the sorceress’s office still impresses him. A quick inspection reveals that the stack of books on the desk has grown impossibly larger since last time. Most of the titles are still in languages which he can’t read, but the few words that Geralt parses out reveal he’s not the only one who’s been looking into the Fair Folk. Yen sees him looking, and Geralt quirks a brow. “Hope you didn’t have to grant any favors for all this, Yen.”

Yen looks momentarily unimpressed as she takes a seat behind the desk. “To assuage your concern, it so happens that I did not. But even if I _had_ , Geralt, I’m more than capable of protecting myself.”

He chuckles despite the sharp rebuke. “Never said you weren’t.”

The sorceress smiles briefly, and then her expression turns serious. “Yes well… As I said earlier: I believe you have some things to tell me. Start from the beginning, if you would.”

• ~ * ~ •

Geralt finds himself running out of words as Yennefer’s expression darkens further. “And then, well… Jaskier told me that there might be an honor contract on me—”

The glimmer of Yen’s violet eyes really is quite alarming: like a loud peal of warning thunder before the lightning strike. “‘Might be,’ Geralt? Please clarify the matter for me.” He gulps, smelling the ozone of an impending storm.

“Jaskier said that it should be fine as long as I don’t run into any other Fay. I haven’t had a chance to ask him for more details, but my impression was that it wasn’t a real problem yet,” the witcher explains with much more confidence than he feels.

Yen says nothing, merely closes her eyes, steepling her hands atop her desk. The room is silent for a very long, nerve-wracking minute. Then the sorceress opens her eyes, and says plainly, “I see.”

Geralt, in full self-preservation mode now, doesn’t respond.

“I see,” Yen repeats, glaring at him, “that you are no less of an idiot than before— I’d say that the consistency is nice, except that it’s not, Geralt! Gods above, you should have written to me _immediately_ after this happened.” The chair scrapes loudly against the floor as she stands. Yen opens her mouth, then shuts it. Her hands clench into fists, which she releases, only to close them again.

“Yen—”

She shoots him a poisonous look. “No, not another word! You do realize what you’ve done, don’t you? Somehow, Witcher, you have mobilized the entirety of the Fair Folk— who until now haven’t been seen _for several hundred years_ — against yourself. All because of some foolish misunderstanding with this- this- _Buttercup_!”

“Jaskier,” he corrects immediately.

Yen’s pursed lips have gone white. “Jaskier, fine. I don’t care what the fae’s name is, to be honest. What I care about is knowing that you understand the monumentality of the shit pile you’ve probably landed yourself in. Despite my _immense_ irritation with you, Geralt, somehow I don’t want you dead.”

He frowns, feeling a sharp pang in his chest. _Fuck. Never meant to worry Yen like this_. “I’m sorry.”

The sorceress sighs, pushing back a fly-a-way strand of hair. Her eyes are much softer now. “Don’t be sorry, just… be more concerned _for_ yourself, alright? I’m not the only one who’d be upset if something happened to you, Geralt.”

He swallows thickly. “Alright. I’ll try.”

• ~ * ~ •

Yen asks him a few more questions about current events before they switch to more pleasant, less pressing topics. Things settle down after that. “You wouldn’t _believe_ what things the common person thinks they know about magic and magic-users,” the sorceress complains. “Honestly, sometimes I feel like tearing my hair out, Geralt… tonight, for instance, I’m dining with a lord who’s apparently traveled a great distance to see me— and it’ll probably come to nothing, or he’ll have his hopes set too high. I’m powerful, true, but even my powers aren’t limitless!”

He snorts in amusement. “I understand— if I ever meet either of the Grimm brothers, I’ll punch them in the face; most folks’ heads are filled with nonsense because of their stories. Makes my job a lot more difficult when I’ve got children— _and_ their parents— asking why I’m not doing this or that, or offering ‘advice’ on dealing with a monster. That is, of course, if the beast exists at all.”

Yennefer laughs at this, which had been his intention, then sighs. “When did we grow so old and crotchety, Witcher?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says mock-contemplatively. “I’ve always been this way. As for you though, I’m not sure.”

• ~ * ~ •

True to her word, Yen excuses herself shortly after to prepare for her dinner-meeting with the noble. Geralt grumbles a bit about being left with only the servants for company. Not that he has anything against common folk, but rather that _they_ generally have something against him; he’d like not to be surrounded by fear-scented people until Yen returns from dinner. If she returns, that is; the sorceress is not above physical negotiations after all. He puts the thought aside. What Yen does with herself— or a partner— isn’t his business anymore, nor does he truly want it to be.

When she’s finally ready— decked out in a necklace dripping with sapphires, wearing a sheer white slip beneath a black wrap dress— Yen bids him farewell with a practical, if not unconcerned, statement: “I trust that you can manage to stay out of trouble while I’m gone, Witcher. Don’t hesitate to ask the staff if you need anything. Or even want it.”

“Have fun,” he replies simply.

Yen shoots him a pointed look. “I don’t believe I will, but I’ll try to anyhow. Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Night, Yen.”

• ~ * ~ •

The next morning, he’s woken up by the servant woman from the hall. Geralt absently wonders if it’s deliberate on Yen’s part, but dismisses the thought. It’s unimportant. Depending on how last night’s meeting went, the sorceress will be very irritated if he’s late for breakfast. Geralt thanks the servant and dresses quickly, throwing on the magical necklace last, as has become habitual.

Somehow he manages not to lose his way in the overlarge halls, relying on his barely-there memory of the house’s layout to reach the dining room. As predicted, Yennefer is already at the table and looks up at him expectantly when he strides through the doors. Geralt takes a brief moment to inspect her appearance: a bit tired, but overall not out of sorts. _Things must’ve gone well then_ , he thinks, relieved.

As the witcher sits, he notices that Yen has been observing him too. She squints slightly, blinks, and reaches out a hand to inspect the necklace. “Do you still wear this regularly?” she inquires.

Geralt pulls a few dishes to him. “Yes; it’s been quite useful. You could make a decent amount of coin if you crafted more of them.”

Surprisingly, Yen grimaces at the statement and releases her hold on the chain. Geralt sits back and begins eating as she speaks. “No, thank you, Geralt, but I don’t think I will. The process was entirely too tedious to repeat on a large scale. But again, I am glad that it has proven useful. Tell me some of the specifics, if you would— they’ll help me fill gaps in its protection, as well as expand it.”

He swallows the last bit of a piece of bacon. “Alright. Guess I’ll start from the beginning then— right after I left here. Sound good?”

“Quite. Please don’t be stingy on the details, even the grisly ones.” Yen takes a dainty bite out of a pear.

• ~ * ~ •

They stay at the table until morning becomes midday and the servants clear what little food remains from the table. Geralt, unused to talking for such long stretches, feels a bit drained. Yen, very well-acquainted with him, notices this. She stands, stretches, and sends him a soft smile. “Go check on Roach, and meet me in the laboratory when you’re done; one of the servants can give you directions.”

The witcher likewise takes a moment to stretch, nods gratefully, and goes to do just that.

• ~ * ~ •

Some time later, he heads indoors feeling refreshed and ready to get back to work, whatever that entails. It seems that Yen has some ideas, given that she wants him in the lab… Geralt flags down a servant, this time a middle-aged man, and asks for directions. Once he’s got them, the witcher thanks the man, and wanders off.

It takes him a moment to find the door, as it’s nearly hidden by a large tapestry and long, decorative table topped with a vase of dried flowers. After he doubles back, Geralt inspects the door more closely. _This is definitely it_. Half-expecting it to be locked, he twists the doorknob. It turns silently, revealing a dim hallway. He steps forward.

• ~ * ~ •

Although the lab is on the ground floor and has windows, it still feels rather claustrophobic— almost like it really is underground. Except there is no musty scent, the type which often accompanies subterranean spaces. It does smell cloyingly of magic, however, and Geralt grimaces as he continues to look around. There’s a lot to take in.

The entire back wall is one large oak bookcase, well dusted. It’s filled with tomes, as well as dried herbs, glass vials (some see-through, some he wished _weren’t_ ), and others that he has no idea the contents of. Unlike the rest of the house, there’s no carpet or hardwood; the flooring is large slate tiles. Instead of a desk, the center of the room is filled by a long, thin table; a small desk sits in the corner with a mostly-burnt candle atop it. The windows are opaque and the curtains are made of thick, gray material.

Suddenly, a shelf on the bookcase parts, and he instinctively tenses. But it’s just Yen.

As she steps fully into the room, the sorceress mutters a spell, resulting in the bookcase-door shutting. It blends seamlessly into the rest of the shelving. Geralt blinks. Yen turns around and sees him standing there. Then the witcher notices that she’s holding a small mahogany box.

“I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to retrieve you,” Yen says absently, striding towards him and setting down the box. She returns to the shelves, seeming to browse them for a particular tome, or perhaps ingredient. Without much else to do, Geralt walks over to the table and carefully leans against it; he knows better than to touch random, probably-magical items, both through first-hand experience and Yen’s prior warnings.

“Did you build this?” he asks curiously.

Yen turns around, holding a dried bundle of herbs in one hand, and a large book in the other. She snorts. “No. The bones of this place were already here, I merely added some personal touches. And increased security, of course. I’m sure you noticed.”

Considering the matter carefully, Geralt guesses: “The… feeling, that we’re underground?”

Yen looks pleased that he’s gotten it right. “Exactly. A little enchantment to increase the walls’ thickness. I’ve taken other measures as well, but— that’s a conversation for another time. Take off the necklace, please.”

He obliges, feeling somewhat reluctant to.

She studies it closely for a moment, pinching the pendant in between her index finger and thumb, running the chain through her other hand. As the sorceress continues the examination— for _what_ exactly, the witcher has no idea— her brow creases in deep concentration. After a minute, Yen carefully sets the necklace down, nodding to herself. “The enchantments have held up fairly well for a somewhat experimental piece of magic,” she informs him.

Not sure what else to do, Geralt nods. He clears his throat. “How well is… well?”

“Seventy-five, eighty percent; I doubt Fringilla Vigo herself could do much better.”

He feels both relieved and more than a bit proud. “Sounds like it’s a success then.”

Yen laughs. “Yes, yes. But, to paraphrase a teacher of mine: perfection is not enough. Control and predictability are what’s needed. I’ll have to borrow this from you for a bit, run some tests, see how much I can repair it while adding new layers of protection.”

Geralt feels a pinch of anxiety at the thought of being separated— the necklace _has_ saved his life several times, after all— and Yen must notice this. She places a reassuring hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently. “I’ll be as quick as I can; you can come by and say hello to it as often as you need to.”

The witcher shoots her a disgusted look at the teasing and grunts. “That won’t be necessary, Yen. Just do what needs to be done and return it to me in one piece.”

• ~ * ~ •

Over the next few days, he learns that the mysterious mahogany box holds more of the same metal which had been used to craft his necklace. Apparently Yennefer is checking the individual links in the chain to ensure their enchantment is holding. Whichever ones she deems ‘weak’ are removed and subsequently replaced. It seems like a tedious process, but according to Yen, it’s a necessary one, as the spell-work requires each link’s magic to hold in order for the whole thing to function.

“Think of it like a castle wall,” she tells him. “All together, it’s rather difficult to get through, but if there are a few loose bricks…”

He understands better, after that— or at least enough to stop asking questions and return to _his_ work: brewing potions. Yen has been gracious enough to lend him a workspace in her lab, doubly gracious in letting him peruse her ingredients and take what he needs. It’s rather odd, but at the same time, peaceful, to hear Yen’s low chanting, occasional cursing, smell the familiar scent of her magic, as the witcher watches his various brews cook. It also keeps the boredom he’d undoubtedly be feeling otherwise at bay.

 _I hope she decides to stay here for a while_ , Geralt thinks as he bottles a fresh batch of Cat.

At this, Yen looks up and smiles. “I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon,” she replies aloud. “And you’re more than welcome to visit as often as you’d like, Geralt— emergency or no.” The witcher inclines his head in acknowledgment and returns to his brewing. But he finds his step lighter for the rest of the afternoon just the same: it’s a relief to have a friend like Yen, and for the millionth time, he’s extremely grateful that they’ve retained their amiability after breaking up.

• ~ * ~ •

A week and a half after his arrival, it’s nearly time for Geralt to depart again. Despite staying busy, the witcher is practically itching to get back out on the Path again and return to normal life. He misses contracts, the freedom of the road, and if he makes any more potions, his bags’ seams will rip. Roach is pent up too. He takes her on short rides around the village, and one or two longer ones through the wilderness, but the mare was made for tougher stuff.

“Soon, girl,” Geralt promises, patting her neck. “We just have to be patient for a little while longer.”

• ~ * ~ •

The next day, Yen cheerfully announces that the necklace has been repaired and is in full— enhanced, actually— working order. They have a final meal together, and despite his insistence that she’s done enough, that it’s not necessary, Yen has the kitchen staff supply him with as much food as Roach can comfortably carry. When his mare stands fully-loaded outside the stable, and Yen is before him, Geralt swallows. “Again, I… don’t quite know what to say, Yen. You’ve done too much for me. Thank you.”

The sorceress smiles. “Well, somebody has to keep you alive. Think of it this way, Witcher: how else would I keep myself sharp other than by protecting you. I’d certainly not test myself as much in court. Do let me know if Jaskier comes back; I’d be interested in meeting him.”

Geralt nods and they hug briefly. The witcher breathes in the comforting scent of lilac and gooseberries deeply, then lets go. He sits in the saddle. “Take care of yourself, Yen.”

Yen smiles again, pats Roach’s flank, then steps back. “You too, Geralt.”

• ~ * ~ •

The Path is the same as it has always been, and will continue to be. Some of the roads he traverses are well-maintained: free of holes, bumps, rocks, and encroaching plants. Most, however, are not. On these narrow, underbrush-crowded roads, Geralt walks Roach to ensure that she doesn’t lose her footing and become injured. He makes his way wherever there are rumors of monsters. He does so alone.

Just as he starts wondering if the fae has gone forever, Jaskier shows up. The first thing Geralt blurts out, stupidly, is: “Where were you?”

Jaskier blinks, standing absolutely still in the middle of the road before him and Roach. Immediately after speaking, Geralt grits his teeth. _Fuck._ _That sounded like something a pining youth who’d just taken his first lover would say_. “I meant that I never know when you’ll show up and—” he cuts himself off with a huff. _It’s annoying_ , he finishes mentally. _I was terrified that you’d appear at Kaer Morhen and force me into having a very awkward conversation with the others_.

Jaskier snorts, looking very amused. But he, quite kindly, ignores Geralt’s rambling. “I was helping with the solstice ceremonies. And you?”

He blinks— the fae might not realize it, but he’s just supplied _far_ more information than expected. Though it is quickly becoming apparent that the witcher knows rather less about the Fair Folk than he initially thought, Geralt _does_ know this: only Fay nobility, those in the inner court itself, assist with solstice ceremonies. Furthermore, only _one_ type of Fay celebrates the Winter Solstice: the Unseelie _. Jaskier is Unseelie_.

He swallows, feeling more uneasy than he has in a while. The question: ‘You’re Unseelie, aren’t you?’ burns the tip of his tongue, but Geralt doesn’t ask it— afraid of having confirmation. At the same time, there’s a desperate part of him that points out that he could be wrong about this too; perhaps the Unseelie Court isn’t the only one to celebrate the Winter Solstice after all. Whatever the case, he’s incapable of erasing the thought, _Jaskier is no ordinary fae_ , from his mind.

“Witcher?” Geralt realizes that he’s been silent for too long— again.

“I was…” _How exactly to describe Kaer Morhen?_ “At the Wolf School’s keep. Witchers do not work in winter; too few monsters. Instead we spend the time training and recovering.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen slightly at his vague and clipped admittance. “There are _more_ of you?”

He blinks, unsure what the fae means— “Do you mean witchers, or?”

“Ah. More of your— school, was that the term for it?” Despite himself, Geralt nods in confirmation at the innocent question. “Tell me.”

The witcher clears his throat, resettles into the saddle, and obliges.

• ~ * ~ •

Despite it being mid-spring now, the weather here doesn’t reflect it. Most days are damp, with a lingering chill at dawn or evening, and gray clouds gather overhead. The alternative, if the locals are unlucky enough, is unbearable mugginess, with the swamp-stench spreading inescapably on the breeze. The bugs seem to multiply too, and Roach often jerks her head about, flicks her ears, and swishes her tail all in a vain attempt to rid herself of biting flies. Though he often mutters complaints, Geralt continues on, alone. The people of Velen need a witcher’s services no less than any others, and the gods only know when another one will pass by the moss-draped dwellings here.

It’s in one of these small, unnamed swamp hamlets that a flyer on the town’s worn notice board catches his eye: CHANGELING BABE, MOTHER SEEKING LOST CHILD. Geralt halts Roach and doubles back to take a closer look at the rain-spotted parchment. Despite the weather damage, it’s recent.

• ~ * ~ •

“My son don’t sleep no’ eat or suckle. He’s half a year old an’ yet— Witcher can’t ye see how small he be?” The peasant woman’s exhausted face is streaked with tears. She gestures forcefully at the worn wooden bassinet which contains the baby in question. “He’s a Changeling, sure as a cock crows in the morning.”

Geralt purses his lips, staring intently at the prune-faced, screaming baby. He’s no expert on children, is rarely around infants unless to rescue one, so the witcher is unsure how much of the… unpleasantness is normal for Humans at that age. Yet the longer he stands here, the more _off_ something seems. But before he does anything rash— risking harm to _an actual baby_ — he needs to be certain. “When did you first notice the strange behavior?”

The woman, Katarzyna, stifles another sob with her fist. “Two months ago. Before tha,’ my boy were a right angel, master witcher. He ate when I fed ‘em and kept quiet too. Please, save my Michael!”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

• ~ * ~ •

“Jaskier,” he hisses, pacing violently in a tight circle several generous feet away from the small hovel. “ _Jaskier_.” Geralt halts abruptly, and growls, feeling stupid. The boggy wilderness around him is loud with the sound of frogs, and it smells. “JASKIER!” _This isn’t working_. He closes his eyes, trying to remember if there’s any way to _summon_ a fae. _If Jaskier could hear me, then he’d already be_ —

“Well, this is a surprise.”

 _here_. “Jaskier.”

The fae looks somewhat exasperated, but also faintly amused. “Yes, yes, Witcher. I think we’ve established that you know my name. Now, what do you want?”

Geralt grits his teeth for a moment, already regretting his next words. But there’s— possibly— a baby to save, so what choice does he really have? _Sorry, Yen, Vesemir_. “I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a female American, Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s passing— may her memory be a blessing— hit me hard, and I decided to distract myself for a bit by working on this chapter. If you're of age and a U.S. citizen, educate yourself and _please_ vote. It’s super important!


	5. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier agrees to help Geralt— but not without a price. After reluctantly accepting his offer, the witcher sees another side of the fae as they begin working together. However, it remains to be seen whether or not the cost, and the inherent risk of this particular contract, will be worth it. All these uncertainties leave Geralt feeling vulnerable; something which he doesn’t appreciate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The contract was supposed to be a quick wham, bam thank you ma’am kind of thing, but, alas, that changed because Geralt decided to be a moody bastard. So I broke the chapter up into two parts.

The fae’s eyes widen comically, and he takes a half step back in surprise. “Oho! I’m glad I came— although, you know, there are more refined ways to call someone than _shouting their name repeatedly_.”

Geralt glares frustratedly but holds his tongue until it appears that Jaskier is finished speaking. “Are you done yet?”

The fae holds up a hand and does a small celebratory jig. He growls, and Jaskier stops moving, although his eyes still dance. “Okay, _now_ I am. Tell me what you need help with?”

“A contract; there’s potentially a Changeling, and I need you to—”

Jaskier grimaces as if he’s just tasted something particularly foul. “Oh dear. I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you right there. I cannot help with this.”

“Why. Not?” he demands. For all of the fae’s wanton displays of magic, this seems like a simple thing. And Jaskier has never seemed _reluctant_ to hide his nature from Geralt before. Neither has the witcher ever asked anything of him, so he shouldn’t resent the request as much as he seems to. It’s more than a little irritating.

Jaskier’s gaze freezes over. “Because if I do, it may attract the attention of whoever planted the Changeling—” he falls silent, as if considering something. _Oh_. _Didn’t consider that_ , Geralt thinks, surprised. The fae sucks in a breath and deliberately meets his gaze. “Furthermore, I’m no _Djinn_ , Geralt. I do not hand out favors for free. Just as you don’t work for no coin, hmm?” Jaskier’s long fingers tap impatiently at his crossed arms.

He tenses at the word ‘Djinn.’ Then the rest of Jaskier’s statement hits him, sending a wave of cold down the witcher’s spine. Next comes a stab of disappointment, which he tries to suppress. _Should have known better: no magic comes for free_. Now there are _two_ perfectly good reasons to reconsider this plan. Then Geralt remembers Katarzyna’s distressed face, hears the echoes of her sobs in his mind. If he doesn’t help her, then no one will. _Fuck_.

Feeling vaguely sick, he asks: “What’s your price?”

Jaskier’s eyes gleam eagerly. “You’ll answer my questions honestly—” the fae sees his darkening expression, and breaks off. His gaze softens. “I’m not scheming, Geralt, just curious.”

There’s a long, tense pause in the conversation.

“For how long?” he asks bluntly, well aware of the dangers of open-ended deals.

“Hmm. Let’s say until the contract has been finished.”

The witcher’s lips purse as he thinks. _Is the risk— Jaskier’s price— worth it?_ There are some secrets that Geralt would hate to give up; he’s an honest man, and a deal is a deal even if one regrets making it later. The witcher recalls how the fae seems to value trust. How Jaskier has yet to harm him intentionally; scared him, sure. But never harmed. There’s even a deadline for this agreement. The only reason for his hesitation is fear over what questions Jaskier may ask him.

 _Tough luck_ , Geralt tells himself. Besides, no contract lasts forever. “We have a deal.”

• ~ * ~ •

After finalizing their pact, he considers starting straightaway, but ultimately decides against it; explaining Jaskier’s abrupt arrival here would be too difficult. With people already receptive to the idea of Fay, it’d also be dangerous— even backwater swamp-dwellers can discern Jaskier’s otherness merely by looking. So the witcher, feeling reluctant to leave the fae to his own devices, orders: “Stay here. I’ve got to talk to the mother quickly.”

He retrieves an empty container from his potions bag and fills it with salt from Roach’s saddlebags. Then Geralt walks back to the house and knocks on the door. Katarzyna seems a little surprised, so he quickly explains: “Until I’ve figured out if your baby— Michael— is a Changeling or not, you’ll need protection. May I come in?”

“Of course.”

Geralt steps inside quickly, and hands Katarzyna the salt. She takes the vial carefully, as if it contains precious stones rather than a common mineral, and tucks it into her pocket. When the witcher has her attention again, he instructs, “Sprinkle that in an unbroken circle around your bed; the Fair Folk hate salt so it will protect you.”

After she’s shown her understanding, he continues, “Don’t put any around Michael. If he’s a Changeling, salt will only aggravate him, and the Changeling must be undamaged for there to be an exchange.” Geralt isn’t entirely _certain_ of this, but he knows all too well what desperation can make people do. He’s also seen the consequences of adults mistreating ‘monstrous’ children— as Stregobor comes to mind, he barely represses a scowl. There is also the fact that the child, Changeling or no, did not ask to be placed here. Probably.

“Th-thank you. I’ll follow yer instructions to th’ letter, Master Witcher,” Katarzyna says, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“It’s just Geralt,” he corrects. “I’ll be back tomorrow to start the investigation.”

With that, he steps outside— only to see that Jaskier is gone.

Just as his vexation is about to boil over, the witcher hears several twigs snap loudly in the underbrush. Geralt whirls around and _stares_. A man in his mid-twenties is picking his way through the undergrowth, dancing around the dampest spots of earth. His brown hair is tousled, and there’s a lute strapped to his back. If the man weren’t walking out of the woodsy swamp, he wouldn’t look out of place in a court or tavern. Although his face is downcast, hiding his eyes, Geralt still suspects— the man steps clear of the trees and looks up. His eyes are blue.

Now that the bard, _Jaskier_ , is standing next to him, the slight height difference and the vast difference in bulk between them are more apparent. While his eyes are still compelling, they’re not _compelling_ , just a very pretty shade of blue. In this form, Jaskier’s cheeks are slightly pink, and he no longer reeks of magic but a faint, floral perfume. There’s still something graceful, elegant, about his posture, but it’s not otherworldly anymore. Instead, it looks practiced; he carries himself as an experienced performer would. A strange ripple passes through the witcher’s very core. _I knew Fay could change their appearances, but— fuck_.

“Geralt?” even Jaskier’s voice is different. There is no eerie undertone of power and assuredness in it. Instead, it’s soft, if no less pure, and shows his ‘youth.’ The bard licks his lips nervously, and he sees a flash of normal, if very white, teeth. The witcher blinks and realizes that he’s been silently staring the entire time.

“Why— this?” is all he manages to get out. _Why didn’t you show me this form before?_

Jaskier smiles, and _that_ at least is familiar. “If I’m going to help you, then I shouldn’t upset the Humans, right?”

“I- Yeah. Let’s go.” Still feeling disquieted, he leads Jaskier to Roach. The mare’s nostrils flare warily as the bard approaches, but she’s been around— and carried— enough magical creatures that she doesn’t panic. Geralt mounts then helps Jaskier up (it’d be suspicious for him to walk), and they head back to the inn.

• ~ * ~ •

The innkeeper shoots him a dirty look from behind the bar when Geralt and Jaskier walk through the door. Despite the man’s obvious displeasure at hosting a witcher, coin is coin; around here, no one is wealthy enough to snub a little more of it. So the man nods in greeting, and says nothing. In return, Geralt doesn’t either. As much as he imagines that it would be satisfying to snap back for once, being rude has never improved his prospects.

The witcher also remembers, perfectly, all the times Vesemir reminded him that, “Witchers are no knights, lad. Banish the thought from your head” as a youth. Despite this, Geralt, a budding witcher with not much else to cling to inside the cold stone walls of Kaer Morhen, had refused to listen. _I will be a hero_ , he remembers thinking and snorts at his past-self’s fanciful notions. Where his mentor hadn’t been able to dissuade his youthful self, the world’s casual, inane cruelty had.

During this moment of bitter reflection, he misses Jaskier’s cool glance at the innkeeper, and his brow’s furrowing.

• ~ * ~ •

The bard remains quiet as he unlocks the door and leads them inside. Geralt quickly straightens the bed’s covers out, shrugs off the sword harness, and walks past Jaskier— who’s still standing stiffly in the threshold— and sets it gently against the wall. Then he looks over his shoulder and says, without thinking, “Thought it was vampires who were supposed to need an invitation.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen in shock, and his mouth drops open— he laughs. It’s an even better sound in his bard-form: rich, deep, and warm. “Was that a _joke_?” he demands, sounding incredulous.

Geralt turns his back again in a show of straightening his swords in order to hide his smile. “That was me telling you to sit down; we’ve things to discuss.”

• ~ * ~ •

Jaskier leans back his chair far enough that the witcher’s instincts urge him to readjust the bard before he overbalances. He restrains himself, and Jaskier doesn’t overbalance. It continues to bother Geralt, however. For an uncomfortable moment, they watch one another, seemingly waiting for someone else to speak first. Finally, the bard seems to lose patience, for he sighs, and carelessly props his booted feet on the table— making Geralt’s eye twitch. “Tell me what you know about Changelings, Witcher.”

• ~ * ~ •

“I’m sorry, but _halved-eggshells_ filled with water? Bagpipes?”

“That’s what the folktales say; I’ve never dealt with a Changeling before, nor has any other witcher for several centuries,” Geralt replies tersely.

At this, Jaskier does something entirely unexpected: he throws his head back and his shoulders start to shake. He— _he’s laughing_. Geralt swallows, feeling an odd mixture of embarrassment, disbelief, and annoyance. Sure, he’s been mocked before, sneered at, spit on, cursed, and otherwise mistreated, but nobody has ever laughed at him.

As the bard continues to chortle, his boots slip, and he finally overbalances.

Lightning fast, the witcher reaches out and grabs the chair. This brings them uncomfortably close. He sees the alarmed wideness of Jaskier’s eyes morph into relief and smells the faintest trace of magic. Geralt blinks, releases the chair. Jaskier sighs, then sweeps a hand through his hair— that at least hasn’t changed. “Sorry. It’s just that it’s completely ridiculous. I didn’t mean to offend you. Are there any other things you’ve heard?”

He stares pointedly for a moment, and when the bard’s face stays serious, Geralt looks away, continuing: “Touch… Changelings are disgusted by Human touch, and— appetite. They’re constantly hungry, foul-tempered.” _This one probably even more so because Katarzyna hasn’t been able to get him to eat_.

Jaskier nods, absently drumming his fingers on the table. “You’d be irritated too if people kept feeding you tasteless mush. The touch-aversion thing is true as well, but as I’ve never much enjoyed that particular kind of prank-pulling, I couldn’t tell you the reason for it.”

Frowning and feeling increasingly frustrated, he ponders their dilemma. While Geralt assumes that Changelings don’t like salt, he’s also painfully aware that babies cry at the slightest provocation. He’d rather find a more reliable method to test the child’s Humanity. The witcher lowers his gaze, feeling a burning in his stomach, and clears his throat. “Can’t you just— ”

Jaskier narrows his eyes dramatically. “No, _I cannot just_ anything, Witcher. At least not without detectable traces— it’d be like leaving greasy fingerprints on a fine mirror. I’d rather save my magic for sending the Changeling back if we have to.”

Geralt blinks, startled by the analogy. That’s significantly more noticeable than he’d imagined. But it’s still not a guarantee that anything will come of it. “How likely is it that the fae behind this will act on these… greasy fingerprints?”

“Mm, well it depends on the fae. Our actions won’t be a _dead_ giveaway, but they’ll still provide enough of a lead for this person if they wanted to find us. Ordinarily, I’d say not to worry too much, but you’re already at risk. This might just provide an excuse to attack… What do you want to do, Geralt?”

He stares down at the table for a long time, recalling Yen’s plea to be more careful— yet another factor to consider. Then he thinks about the hypotheticality of all this. Geralt has lived with active threats against his life before, so really what’s one (or two) more? He isn’t going to cower like a small child just because someone— or several someones— _might_ be after him. That isn’t who he is, nor is it what witchers do. “Will doing this mostly without magic minimize the risk?” he asks slowly.

“… I believe so.”

“Alright. We’ll proceed cautiously then.” A wave of fatigue suddenly crashes over the witcher, and he grimaces. _There’s no going back now_. Geralt rubs at his eyes and represses a yawn, then shifts uncomfortably; his backside has gone numb. _Need to sleep, don’t think there’s much more to sort out right now_. “We can continue this discussion tomorrow.”

Jaskier blinks, as if he hasn’t noticed the passage of time— and maybe he hasn’t. The witcher knows that the bard has bodily needs just as he does, but to what extent, he’s not sure. Jaskier has never complained of hunger, tiredness, or thirst in front of him. The only complaint he’s ever had is over the scar on his throat. “Right then. I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

“At dawn.”

“Dawn it is,” Jaskier agrees pleasantly, rising from his seat. “I’ll be waiting for you outside. Goodnight, Geralt.” He disappears in a faint burst of magic. _Without asking a single personal question_ , the witcher realizes abruptly. A moment later, he shakes his head, stands up, and gets ready for bed. It’s late, and he’s clearly overtired if the lingering pleasant surprise at Jaskier’s discretion is anything to go by.

• ~ * ~ •

The next morning, Geralt rises in the dark and dresses quickly, gnawing on a bit of jerky and a biscuit— the cooks will have just started preparing breakfast at this point— and quietly creeps down the stairs, one hand on his potions bag to keep it from clinking loudly. True to his word, Jaskier is leaning against a tree across from the inn. With a cheerful wave, he walks over. The lute is missing.

Geralt waits until Jaskier reaches him to walk over to the stables. Roach isn’t exactly happy to be taken out of the warm, hay-filled stall this early, but she’s well-trained enough not to protest. The bard bounces on his heels and gives the witcher a curious look as he stops his mare just outside the doorway. “Shall I meet you there?”

“No. You’d better ride with me, Jaskier. It’ll look suspicious if you pop up in places randomly,” Geralt answers reluctantly, frowning.

Jaskier grins, apparently delighted. “Oh, what an honor! I sure do appreciate it, Miss Roach.” He winks at the witcher, who merely sighs again long-sufferingly as he climbs into the saddle. After Roach settles, he gives the bard a hand up— it’s obvious that he’s not used to horseback riding. The witcher pats his mare in apology for the unexpected extra weight, and then they’re off.

As expected, Katarzyna is already awake when they arrive. Roach snorts softly, and before Jaskier has dismounted, the shabby wooden door swings open. The peasant woman finishes tying her hair up in a scarf and steps outside. Geralt ties Roach to one of the tiny porch’s columns and gestures for the bard to step forward.

“Good mornin’ to you,” Katarzyna says, warily eyeing Jaskier.

“Good morning.” Geralt gestures to Jaskier, who dips his head respectfully. “This is my associate—”

“Master Dandelion, or preferably just Dandelion. At your service, Mrs.?” Jaskier interrupts. Geralt nearly raises an eyebrow but steels his face at the last minute. Perhaps it’s a good idea for the bard to use a fake name; anything to throw off someone who may want to find them later.

Before he can say anything else, Katarzyna, looking less wary if no less serious, clears her throat. “It’s Ms. actually, sir. Or Katarzyna. My husband— may he rest well— been dead for almo’ three months.”

The bard bows his head solemnly. “Ah. I am terribly sorry, Katarzyna. Hopefully the witcher and I will be capable of solving your current predicament quickly so you can focus on returning to normal life.”

“A blessing on you.” She smiles and turns to Geralt. “Your friend is here to help ye?”

He nods. “Dandelion is a sorcerer. While I am confident in my ability to discern if the Fair Folk have replaced Michael with a Changeling, it never hurts to be certain with these things.”

Katarzyna’s eyes widen. “Gods! Yer not jestin’?”

Jaskier winks, and suddenly, there’s a small buttercup in his hand. He holds it up, and then it’s gone again. “No, he is not— Geralt isn’t one to joke much anyway. I owe him a favor for solving a Fay problem of my own, so I’m here to help.” The bard meets his eyes and grins playfully.

Geralt sighs softly. “If you have no other questions, I’d like to get started, and ask some of my own.”

“O’ course, Geralt. Michael should be awake anyway— lucky for you, he be in a rare good mood; no cryin.’”

“Ah, what luck,” Jaskier agrees cheerfully. There’s a spring in his step as he and Geralt follow Katarzyna inside.

• ~ * ~ •

The witcher tries not to cough at the scent of smoke and overdamp wood which become quite prominent once they’re inside the house. Fortunately, this is helped by the smell of something cooking. Katarzyna is making oatmeal, apparently. As Jaskier shuts the door, the woman rushes back to the fire, stirs the pot, then glances over at them. “I’d offer you some, masters, but I weren’t expecting ye to be so early!”

Jaskier, having also looked around at the sparse dwelling, answers for both of them. “Completely understandable. Besides, we ate earlier. Perhaps you could point us in the direction of your son while you break fast?”

Katarzyna looks relieved, even if her cheeks color slightly. “That I can. Michael stays in the back, with me.” She sets down the wooden spoon, brushes her hands off on her dress, then leads them to the sleeping area. It consists of a neatly-made bed (with an unbroken ring of salt around it) and a wooden bassinet. As they come closer, the witcher hears Michael suck in a breath and he begins to wail. Geralt winces momentarily at the assault on his ears.

With a heavy sigh, Katarzyna carefully picks up her son, rocking him expertly. To no avail. After several minutes, she frowns and sets the baby gently down again. “Only time will stop his tears now.” Clearly distressed, the woman adjusts her headscarf, and swallows thickly.

Quietly, the witcher steps forward to observe the red-faced baby. Jaskier does too. He still feels that same sense of wrongness as before. As well as a growing headache. “You said that Michael doesn’t eat— are there any foods which he seems to… dislike less?” Geralt absently reaches out a hand to rock the bassinet. It does nothing to stop the crying.

The peasant shakes her head, frowning deeply. “No. I ‘ave fed my boy all matter of foods, asked me mother, neighbors about picky eatin’ even. He don’ like nothing.”

“How about physical affection?” Jaskier inquires. “Does the lad ever calm after he’s held?”

Again, a frown. “No,” Katarzyna mutters, “and tha’ is truly why I begin thinkin’ something were wrong. Like I told you, Geralt, before a couple o’ months, he were normal. Most times if I pick him up now, he makes a frightful face, or starts wailin.’ Same with anyone else.”

The witcher nods absently. _That tracks. Still need to see it for myself though. Perhaps have Jaskier try to calm the child for comparison_. “Do you mind if I hold Michael?”

“Go ahead.”

Permission granted, he carefully cradles the boy’s head and supports his blanket-wrapped body while lifting him from the bassinet. The baby is terribly light, like a sheet of parchment. Irrationally, Geralt fears that he’ll break within his arms. He does not. Instead, Michael’s face scrunches up alarmingly and he lets out an ear-piercing shriek of outrage, tiny fists balling up and thrashing about.

Worried, and a bit ashamed, Geralt quickly sets the baby down, and the shrieking turns to chest-heaving hiccups; this is not the first child to wail at his presence. “Hmm.” The witcher doesn’t ask Jaskier to pick up the child yet, not with Katarzyna here. “Is there a chance you could invite some company over, have them try? It would be very helpful.”

“No need to! Me an’ a few neighbors are openin’ the final jars from last year’s harvest for dinner two days from now. I’m sure they won’t mind you showing up, masters. Especially not with you investigatin’ this for me.”

“We’ll come by then. Do you mind if we look around for a while longer?”

Katarzyna shakes her head. “Feel free. I’ll be up front.”

Once she’s gone, Geralt steps close to Jaskier— who has remained silent, staring thoughtfully into the bassinet through the whole exchange. “What do you think?” he mutters.

“I think that there’s rather more magic present here than can be accounted for by the presence of one witcher and a ‘sorcerer.’” The bard purses his lips, wandering closer to the bassinet. He coos softly at the baby and gently picks him up. Michael makes nary a sound. Jaskier arches a brow pointedly, then carefully sets the boy down.

• ~ * ~ •

As they began their day very early, it’s only a little after noon when they return to the village. Apart from the inn, there’s a small apothecary’s shop, a carpenter’s, and a butcher’s. Around these are several nice— for Velen at least— houses and a series of tall, narrow apartments. Several of the locals glance at them as they walk by, but as in most small, isolated communities, it’s quiet. Until Jaskier asks, “What now?”

Geralt stops Roach by the notice board and inspects it carefully. Nothing. “We wait.”

• ~ * ~ •

Over mugs of weak ale and sandwiches, they discuss what comes next. And then, Jaskier asks his first question: “Your necklace— I noticed that you weren’t wearing it. Why?” The witcher swallows the last of his ale and sets down the empty mug. He’s a bit surprised, not by the question itself but that he’d forgotten to put the necklace back on, especially since the fae has been by his side nearly the entire time.

“The friend who made it, I visited her a few months ago and she enhanced it. Wasn’t sure how it’d react to a Changeling, so I took it off. Guess I just forgot to put it back on.”

There’s an odd gleam in Jaskier’s eye. “Makes sense. And this ‘friend’ of yours, she’s a sorceress?”

“She is.”

“Would you tell me about her?”

Geralt smiles, somewhat sardonically. “It’s a complicated story. Yennefer and I have known each other for a long time.”

• ~ * ~ •

“I’d like to meet her one day,” Jaskier says, chuckling.

Geralt wipes his mouth— after hearing that the story was complicated, the bard had insisted on ordering another round of drinks— and is unable to stop himself from chuckling. “That’s almost exactly what she said about you. Although in Yen’s case, I think it’s less curiosity and more anger. Maybe. Did tell her that we came to an understanding, last time.”

“Well rest assured that it’s merely curiosity on my part— that necklace of yours is quite a powerful bit of work… Are you ready to begin the preparations?”

The witcher blinks, a bit thrown by the rapid subject-change. But he supposes that they have been sitting here long enough. “Sure. Let’s just hope that what I don’t have the apothecary will. Otherwise we’ll be shit out of luck.”

The bard laughs. “That we will— this place isn’t exactly a center of culture, is it?”

• ~ * ~ •

The brew they’re preparing isn’t complex, but it does take a while to come together. However, there is one ingredient that would ordinarily be difficult for the witcher to find: food from Faerieland. “I _could_ just do the spell, of course,” Jaskier says, “but this way it should make the switch easier on both children. May help me use a bit less energy too, which would be nice.”

“Mm,” Geralt agrees, rifling through his potions bag for ingredients.

As the bard steps behind him, he can’t help but tense a little, automatically. Not so much because it’s Jaskier— the witcher trusts him enough by now— but rather because a witcher’s potions are essential to their livelihoods, _and_ they’re poisonous to anyone else. Jaskier runs a finger down the bottle of Cat sitting at the edge of the collection of potions covering the table. “Did you brew all these?”

“I did— they’re deadly to anyone who’s not a witcher.”

“In other words, don’t touch,” Jaskier says, snatching his hand away. “Why’s that?” The witcher stills, fingers tightening around the vial of Swallow he’s holding. _A promise is a promise_ , a nasty voice in his head sneers. _A promise is a promise, and you made one_. “Geralt?”

He swallows, carefully focusing on the gleaming, multi-colored potions before him. “The Trials. They— they change boys. Mutate them, _us_ , so that the poison we ingest to kill monsters doesn’t inadvertently kill us instead. Most don’t survive.” Unseeingly, he sets the Swallow down with the rest. Then the witcher’s hands clench into fists.

Jaskier moves carefully around the table so that he can see Geralt’s face, and his heart falls at the thousand-yard stare he sees there. As he clears his throat loudly, the witcher seems to stutter back to himself. His fingers slowly relax, and his eyes, when they meet the bard’s, are guarded and wary. “I’ll go get that last ingredient while you finish up here,” he says calmly. _I sense that we both need time to think_.

“Fine,” Geralt replies bluntly.

• ~ * ~ •

Once Jaskier leaves, Geralt attempts to push aside the low thrum of anxious energy buzzing inside him. He grits his teeth, replaying recent events in his head. He is angry at the bard for asking, yes, but angrier at himself for agreeing to the fae’s terms in the first place. For being weak. _“Witchers do not get involved,”_ he recalls, _“nor are they emotional. A witcher’s sole purpose is to destroy monsters and sustain himself by doing so. The two things which should concern him are the contents of his coin purse and the blood on his swords.”_

If Geralt were not so weak, so soft, such a bleeding heart, he would not be in this predicament. Scowling, he grabs the empty potions bag and heads to the apothecary.

• ~ * ~ •

Jaskier still has not returned even after several hours, so Geralt has nothing to do— without the recipe, he can’t begin brewing the potion. The witcher has always hated the waiting part of contracts most. Uncharitably, he resents the bard for this too. He’s never needed anyone, except maybe Yennefer, and look how that turned out.

Carefully, Geralt plays out how they got here, how he could have allowed Jaskier to creep into his life. _This has been a long time coming_ , he realizes. “Fuck.”

• ~ * ~ •

The next morning, as he’s eating breakfast— alone— a stout middle-aged man with a pox-marked face and calloused hands approaches. “Oi! You’d be the witcher that Katarzyna’s hired, no?”

“I am.” 

“Got a job for yeh. If you’re interested.”

“What is it?”

“Drowners, I suspect.”

“How many?”

“A bloody lotta ‘em.”

Geralt gestures to the bench across from him and picks up his fork again. “Tell me more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: Why is Jaskier so hot? :( 
> 
> According to my research, Changelings **can** be banished if you show them a half-eggshell filled with water— it makes them laugh for some reason. Banishment can also be done by showing them a bagpipe because Fay love music; so technically, Geralt is right. But I decided that both those methods would make the job _too_ easy and changed it. 
> 
> It’s also canon that Geralt wanted to be a hero when he was younger ( T _ T ) and that he’s triggered by discussing the Trials/certain parts of his childhood. I can’t remember which short story it was, but there’s a scene where Calanthe brings it up in order to hurt him, and it works. Really well. 
> 
> [Katarzyna](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/e02c4943-76b5-48c8-82ed-73c764eef8db/debykup-7dfa7517-297e-4c68-8d4e-e6d0cf2e82a4.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOiIsImlzcyI6InVybjphcHA6Iiwib2JqIjpbW3sicGF0aCI6IlwvZlwvZTAyYzQ5NDMtNzZiNS00OGM4LTgyZWQtNzNjNzY0ZWVmOGRiXC9kZWJ5a3VwLTdkZmE3NTE3LTI5N2UtNGM2OC04ZDRlLWU2ZDBjZjJlODJhNC5qcGcifV1dLCJhdWQiOlsidXJuOnNlcnZpY2U6ZmlsZS5kb3dubG9hZCJdfQ.k3aLDrfIRUqhSlODGqA3dZKePCakhl-mTHKc87p5OpY).


	6. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Work continues on Katarzyna’s contract, and while Jaskier is away, Geralt deals with _another_ contract. After spending so much time together, it’s only natural that some long-building tensions finally boil over. Unfortunately, this happens at the worst time: right before the big dinner. 
> 
> Or: Jaskier says some things, and Geralt listens (for once).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the never-ending contract; this chapter’s a bit of a long one. But we’re leaving Velen after this. *Shrek voice* Finally outta the swamp! 
> 
> There may be a few book references here, see if you can spot ‘em. 
> 
> **TW** : there’s a small moment of self-harm in this chapter, but it’s over quickly and is only done for magic-purposes.

The name of the man with the Drowner problem is Andrzej. He’s the brother of one of Katarzyna’s neighbors, and when he heard that a witcher was in town, he “knew I had to take th’ chance to ask ye for help. Those bloody monsters been wreakin’ havoc on me and mine for too long.”

Geralt nods sympathetically. “I can imagine. Can you tell me where they’re located, and their exact numbers?”

The farmer shakes his head, spitting on the floor. “As I said earlier, dunno precisely how many, but I’d recon it’s a half dozen at least. Likely more. And they’ve taken up residence in the lake at the edge of my property; got my brother about a year ago.”

He grimaces. It’s one thing to lose a valuable source of food, another to lose that and a close relative in one fell swoop. “Alright. I’ll take a look.”

Andrzej grins, and— to the witcher’s immense surprise— claps him on the back. “Heartened to hear that, Master Witcher. Come, we can talk about your fee on the road. It’s a bit of a ride to my home.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

The ride is about forty minutes, giving them plenty of time to discuss Geralt’s fee and reach an agreement suitable to both parties. As soon as they’re past the low fence delineating the borders of Andrzej’s land, Geralt asks, “Which way to the lake?”

After spitting, the man points a finger at the faint dirt path on their right. “It’s about a five minute ride that way, can’t miss it. I’d be careful with yer horse though, as no one’s used that path ‘less they’ve dire need to since my brother was killed. Gods protect you, witcher.”

“Thanks… If I’m not back by noon tomorrow, you’ll have to hire someone else. Or consider moving.”

Andrzej’s brow furrows and he scowls deeply. “Then I shall pray extra to the Gods that we’ll see one another soon, Master.” With a brisk nod, Geralt turns and spurs Roach to a trot. He admits, privately, that it’s good to have a contract which he can do _alone_ again.

**• ~ * ~ •**

True to the farmer’s word, the path has run wild. But for a witcher’s horse it’s passable enough. Once the lake— as well as its decrepit dock and solitary boat— are in sight, Geralt stops Roach. He wraps her reins loosely around the low-hanging branch of a mossy tree some distance from the lake. He pulls Yen’s necklace out and puts it on— though the witcher’s not sure how much it will help against Drowners, as they’re resistant to most signs aside from Igni.

Then Geralt takes stock of his potions supplies, glad that he’s visited the apothecary already. Drowners, while not terribly difficult to dispatch alone, hunt in groups. And from the sound of it, there’s a lot of them here. One can never be too careful.

As the witcher creeps silently toward the rotting dock, his medallion starts to tremble, confirming Andrzej’s warning. He stops before the muddy earth turns to unstable wood and with a flick of his hands forms Aard. The boat, about as dilapidated as the dock, floats forward sluggishly, bobbing low in the scum-covered water. Geralt steps back and waits.

Moments later, there’s an explosion of foul-smelling brackish water as two, three, four Drowners attack the empty vessel. But that’s not the important part. Quick amber eyes dart across the lake’s surface, counting the other ripples which disturb it. _Ten. Though I should probably assume there’re more_. Frowning thoughtfully, the witcher retreats as the old boat is slowly and efficiently destroyed, eventually sinking to its watery grave.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Once he’s safely away from the lake, the witcher crouches down and digs through his potions bag, weighing his options.

Geralt is comfortable facing multiple opponents simultaneously, but when he’s in a situation like this he heeds the adage: divide and conquer. The fight will most likely be a long one, so he’s also got to think about his toxicity. Blizzard will be immensely helpful, but its short-lastingness isn’t. Maribor Forest may be more useful, but his toxicity between the two will make it extremely risky to take more potions if he needs to. Or he could simply use Petri’s Philter and hope that his more potent blasts of Igni, Yen’s necklace, and his silver will be enough.

The witcher considers his potions again, and makes a decision. Then he picks up a rather large rock and unsheathes his silver sword.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The murky water, now red-tinged, explodes upward as a black armor-clad figure breaches its surface, inhaling deeply. Geralt stands in the water for a moment, breathing heavily, then shakes his head like a wet dog. His long— by this point brownish-white— hair hangs limply around his face. It stinks. As does the rest of him. With a muttered curse, he squats back down and pulls a decapitated Drowner head from the water. Then, stumbling, he squelches his way out of the lake, retrieves his potions bag, and makes his weary way to Roach.

After downing some White Honey, Geralt sits for a bit, allowing himself to recover. The lingering swamp muck, blood, sweat, and other reminders of his recent contract dry on his skin. He smells worse than a wet dog beneath a hot summer sun. From past experience, the witcher knows that his hair is going to dry in crusty clumps. His armor will also need careful tending to when he gets back to the inn.

With a scowl he gets to his feet to collect the reward and give Andrzej the good news. This late in the afternoon, the breeze is chilly. But thankfully it’s blowing towards him, so he can’t smell his own stench. Despite the exhaustion, Geralt is pleased. Not once did he wish to make use of Jaskier’s particular skill set during the fight. _Still got it_.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Andrzej tries to get him to stay for dinner, but Geralt declines; though he’s never been one to pass up a free meal, he’d rather not eat smelling as he currently does and he doubts that the farmer’s kindness will extend to allowing him a bath, or lending him clothing. So the witcher merely accepts Andrzej’s coin, his thanks, and is on his way again. He rides quickly as the fading light makes him more aware of his wetness.

By the time Geralt reaches the inn, his whole body feels tightly strung and his eyelids like a pair of the ancient, immense stones which make up Kaer Morhen’s walls. His stomach is a cavernous pit, and despite his best efforts, Geralt is shivering. He stumbles while dismounting and barely has enough sense left to collect his belongings from the saddlebags before heading inside. Ignoring the numerous stares, the witcher leans heavily against the counter and orders a bath and a meal to be brought up to his room.

Perhaps it’s his sorry appearance, or maybe word has spread of his helpfulness, but the innkeeper doesn’t charge him as exorbitant a price as he could— right now, Geralt would pay just about anything he asked. Nodding his thanks, the witcher weaves across the room to the stairs, climbing them with some difficulty. Then he tends to his swords. After that, he does his best to clean the armor, setting it by the fire to dry. The rest of the mess will come off later with a bit of scrubbing. He leans against the wall to wait for the food and bathwater, not wanting to dirty the furniture.

By some good fortune, they arrive simultaneously.

When the last of the servants are gone, Geralt fills an empty bucket with hot water from the bath, strips, and puts his clothes in it to soak; while it’s not a proper wash, it should help prevent the monster-sweat-algae-blood stench from setting into the fabric. Then he places the plate— a pork chop, roll, mashed potatoes, and roasted carrots— beside the bath. With a sigh, Geralt sinks into the steaming water, instantly feeling any lingering aches fade. He’s grateful that this inn has peculiarly large tubs.

The witcher quickly dunks his head and cleans the few scrapes and cuts he’d received on the contract. When he’s less grimy, Geralt picks up the mouth-watering plate and tucks in.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“I have returned, triumphant!” Jaskier crows. Geralt, whose eyelids until now have been closing steadily, startles. The fae— for his glamor is gone— blinks, seeming to take in the scene before him for the first time. “Oh. What happened to you?” He approaches the bath slowly, but the witcher is too tired to protest much, even if a corner of his mind does light up with unease.

“Decided to make myself useful while you were away and took care of some Drowners. A lot of them.” He reaches for the towel, which Jaskier hands to him. Geralt does what he can with his hair, then towels off and dresses as the fae demurely averts his gaze. The witcher realizes distantly that Jaskier is being unusually quiet. “What?” he mutters.

“I could have helped, you know.”

Geralt snorts derisively. “I know. Didn’t want you to. I could do it by myself. ‘sides… you were busy.” Jaskier opens his mouth to object, but he continues: “We should get this brewing. Waited long enough.”

“Right,” the fae agrees a bit tersely. “Let’s.”

After collecting the other ingredients from his potions bag, Geralt is forced to admit— even if only to himself— that he’s far too tired to brew the potion properly. So he sets everything down on the table, mutters, “Since you know the recipe, it’d be best if you brewed it,” and ignores Jaskier’s nonplussed expression. But neither does the witcher feel comfortable letting the fae work unsupervised— or allowing himself to fall asleep in front of him.

He pulls a chair next to his armor by the fire, collects a damp rag and some soap, then begins methodically wiping down the mostly-dry leather.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Geralt blinks, coming awake with a start. His cheek is slightly numb from being pressed against the cool fireplace stone and he realizes that he must have fallen asleep in the chair. The rag is on the floor and what parts of the armor the witcher _had_ managed to wash, he did a shit job on. “Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes. Then he looks up, realizing that Jaskier woke him.

The fae shakes his hand as if it’s been burned and mutters curses in a language he can’t understand. When he sees that Geralt is awake, Jaskier meets his questioning gaze and explains, “The potion’s done— it just needs to steep for a bit longer. I tried to wake you, but that damn necklace did its job a little too well.”

Still not entirely alert, Geralt acknowledges the fae’s words with a simple, “Hmm, sorry.” He stares into the fire and at the cauldron upon it. Surprisingly, its contents don’t smell foul, only have a strange nearly-floral scent. _Must be the food from Faerieland_. The witcher shakes his head, realizing he’d nearly fallen asleep again. It’s the fire’s fault really. This close, it lets off a comfortable warmth, enough that he can ignore his less-than-comfortable position. Mostly. He’ll probably regret it come morning—

“Hey! Come now, witcher, wake up. You’ll give yourself a stiff neck like that.” Jaskier’s words bring him closer to full-wakefulness. Geralt makes a sound between a grunt and a hum. The fae sighs. “Take off the necklace and I’ll help you into bed. The bed which has blankets and actual pillows and things. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

 _It does_ , he thinks distantly. _A good deal nicer than a stone wall and too-small chair_. Geralt sits up slowly and stretches, grunting slightly at the lingering soreness in his muscles. Once the necklace is off, Jaskier offers some encouragement, “There you go, on your feet!” as he helps the witcher up. They slowly make their way across the room. Then the fae tugs the covers back and he flops bonelessly onto the mattress.

Distantly, Geralt feels the blankets being tugged over him and has just enough wherewithal left to mutter a low “Mm” in response as Jaskier bids him goodnight. The next morning, he’s fairly positive that he must have imagined feeling cool fingers brush gently over his cheek as the fae leaves.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The morning light finds Geralt waking in an unusually good mood, but it soon becomes apparent that he isn’t the only one whose mood is exceptional. When he checks on Roach after breakfast, Jaskier appears silently in the stable beside him. A few of the nearby horses nicker in alarm. The witcher glances around quickly to ensure that there are no witnesses.

“Careful,” he says lowly, turning back to Roach. “You’re supposed to be acting normal, remember? Even mages don’t appear from thin air.”

Jaskier leans against the opposite wall, scowling darkly. “Normal,” he mutters, “right.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

By midday, the bard’s bad mood has yet to dissipate. Reluctantly, Geralt decides that it’s probably something they should talk about. He asks, not looking up from the bottle he’s filling with their anti-Changeling potion, “What’s wrong?”

There’s absolute silence for a moment, then Jaskier replies waspishly, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The petty tone makes Geralt raise an eyebrow; he’s seen many moods from the fae but not… _this_. Rather than respond in kind, he sets down the now full bottle and says, “I would.” Hopefully whatever this is will blow over quickly. He feels a little unsettled from seeing Jaskier be so moody.

The bard narrows his eyes and kicks at a bit of dirt on the floor. “Your Human children have toys, no? Including the balls on string which roll and retract?” His blue gaze is intent, waiting for an answer.

“Yes. We call those Yo-yos.”

“Yo-yos,” Jaskier repeats. “That’s not what we call them, but— no matter. To answer your question, Geralt: yes, something is wrong.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

“I have considered the matter carefully, Witcher, and determined that I feel rather uncertain around you; constantly left guessing whether I will be trusted at any particular moment, or instead watched closely by a pair of narrowed yellow eyes. I feel as that poor Yo-yo must, the way you extend and retract your trust—”

“I trust you,” he interrupts hurriedly.

Jaskier arches a brow, smiling bitterly. “Ah yes. You trust me— _to a point_. You trust me enough not to kill you, but not to keep your council. You trust me to brew this potion, to assist on a contract, but only because you are incapable of performing these tasks yourself. In summary: you trust me, but not really. That is precisely the problem.”

“I…” _Fuck._ He swallows, uncertain how to reply. Despite the sour feeling in his gut, Geralt can’t exactly promise to do better. For the witcher is also not in the habit of lying. And that’s what such a promise would be… Jaskier is _right_ that he doesn’t trust him. At least not completely. _And is it really trust if it isn’t given whole-heartedly?_

No. No of course it’s not. That’s exactly Jaskier’s point.

While he’s thinking, the bard turns his back and picks up his lute, throwing himself down dramatically onto the room’s sole armchair. The witcher looks over at him, frowning. Jaskier mutters, not looking up, “You needn’t answer me now, witcher, just… think about it, alright?” He begins plucking something moody and haunting on the instrument. Geralt awkwardly turns back to bottling more of the potion.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The next few hours are tense and quiet as Jaskier’s words hang over them both. So it’s a relief when the fae excuses himself to prepare for dinner. Geralt is also relieved because this gives him time to hunt; he’d feel quite awkward attending the dinner without bringing anything. This is also a somewhat self-serving action, as the witcher needs to eat a lot and he’s not sure how much food there’ll be.

After several hours, he manages to catch two rabbits— a decent contribution— and finds a few patches of wild thyme in the forest’s drier areas. Satisfied, Geralt heads back to the inn, hangs the carcasses in Roach’s stall, and cleans up. When he comes downstairs, Jaskier is waiting in the stable, grimacing at the dead rabbits. “Thought it’d be rude not to bring something,” he says defensively, offering the bard a hand up.

Jaskier refuses, instead hauling himself up awkwardly into the saddle. “Right.” That one word tells the witcher everything he needs to know: the bard is still mad at him. Geralt sighs quietly and urges Roach onward. _Seems that this’ll be even more awkward than I thought_.

**• ~ * ~ •**

They’re early, but that was the plan; the rabbits need time to cook. As they ride up to Katarzyna’s home, Geralt smells the familiar brine-scent of pickled things, along with herbs, woodsmoke, and bread. There’s one other horse— a black mare— tied to the porch column. When Roach doesn’t become aggressive at the other horse’s presence, he ties her there too. This time, Jaskier accepts his help dismounting, although his expression is still sulky and he stays petulantly silent. The front door is open— probably to allow the cooking fumes and smoke out— and two female voices float through it.

“Hello,” Geralt calls as they pass through the entryway. “Katarzyna?”

She looks up, slightly wide-eyed at their earlier-than-expected arrival. “Geralt, Dandelion! Yer awful early for dinner.” The woman beside her, considerably rounder, dark haired, brown-eyed, also looks surprised. Her expression borders on fearful. The witcher controls his urge to sigh.

“Brought these. Thought you’d appreciate having time to prepare them.” He holds the rabbits up.

Katarzyna’s eyes turn grateful. “Many thanks, Witcher. Ye did no’ need to.” She takes the carcasses, puts them on the counter, and withdraws a sharp knife from the block. The peasant holds a hand to her head, as if in embarrassment. “Oh, where is my manners? This is Anna, she’s married to Thom, th’ tanner. Anna, dear, these’re Master Geralt, the witcher, and Master Dandelion, a sorcerer.”

Anna’s face pales momentarily and she quickly curtseys— in Jaskier’s direction. “For true? Never thought I’d meet one of you’s; we don’t get much high folk ‘round here. Nor witchers, neither.” She turns to Geralt and inclines her head. He stands there awkwardly, feeling uncertain about how to respond.

Thankfully Jaskier steps up then, no sign of lingering anger in his voice. “Ah, the pleasure’s all ours, dear lady. Now, Katarzyna, what can we do to help?”

Katarzyna turns, smiling mischievously. “We was waitin’ to move the table ‘til the men arrived, but I suppose you two can handle it.”

Jaskier smiles at her and makes a show of looking over Geralt. This makes the witcher’s stomach flutter for some reason. “I think we’ll be able to manage that, don’t you, Geralt?”

He blinks, slightly dazed. “… Yes, easily.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

By the time they maneuver the table outside, more guests— riding in a wagon that’s also carrying spare chairs— have arrived. There are two more women and one man. One of the women, blonde like Katarzyna but shorter, looks vaguely familiar. She marches straight up to them, not minding the large sack on her back. “You’d be the Witcher?” she asks, voice soft.

“Yes,” Geralt replies, a bit flummoxed.

Unexpectedly, she breaks into a grin and rushes froward, clasping one of his arms with both her hands. “My name is Sonia, but you’d know my brother better: he’s Andrzej.”

Less confused now by her rather enthusiastic greeting, he nods and discreetly frees his hand. “I do; you’ve a strong resemblance.”

Sonia’s grin fades slightly. “Aye. Our other brother, Mikolaj, had an even stronger resemblance. Thank you, on behalf of all of us.” Geralt swallows, gaze darting around at the silent crowd— the yet-unnamed woman and man, Jaskier, even Katarzyna and Anna standing in the doorway— watching their exchange.

“It was nothing,” he says dismissively, stepping back.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The black-haired woman is Nadia, the man beside her is also Michael— “Big Mike,” he introduces himself, smiling politely at Geralt and Jaskier; Sonia’s gratitude did wonders to combat the awkward atmosphere. A few minutes after these introductions, Thom, Anna’s husband, arrives, completing the dinner party. By now the air is beginning to smell of roasted rabbit as well as a variety of other flavors, some fresh, others jarred, some pickled.

Geralt, Jaskier, Thom, and Big Mike have been tasked with bringing the serving wear and furniture outdoors, as well as with starting a bonfire. When Geralt demonstrates Igni, the others leave the fire-making to him. Jaskier converses readily with the other men, who quickly become more cheerful. The witcher, crouched over the growing flames, tries to ignore the small ball of jealousy which sits like lead in his stomach.

**• ~ * ~ •**

They eat about an hour later. Geralt is quietly relieved that he’d thought to bring the rabbits; there’d be no way he would feel comfortable eating his fill otherwise. While the spread is by no means meager, it is still a peasant’s idea of a feast: just enough for everyone and nothing left to waste. It is also apparent that the meal is of more benefit to some (Katarzyna) than others. After everyone’s had their fill, and casual conversations have begun, Geralt discretely catches Katarzyna’s attention.

She stands, then clears her throat. “I didn’t invite th’ witcher and sorcerer from courtesy. They’ve a task for you lot.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

“What are you implying?” Anna hisses, arms crossed. She and Geralt have moved away from the others and now stand behind the house. So far, no one has mentioned anything unusual about Katarzyna, although all have had notes about ‘Michael,’ who cries no matter who holds him. In the fading light, the shadows on Anna’s face look long and wary. “I’ve known Kata since we was knee-high. She’s the most stable woman I know. Yes she may’ve fallen on hard times, but we take care of—”

Geralt holds up his hands. “I wasn’t implying anything. But since this is a baby we’re dealing with, it doesn’t do to be uncertain.”

Anna’s eyes soften and her shoulders slump. “Aye, you’d be right. How can I help?”

“You can try holding Michael for me. Changelings don’t like Human touch.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Katarzyna’s shoulders tense even though he’s yet to say a word. She rolls her sleeves up further, and reaches for another plate. “So, Geralt, what’ve you decided?” The house is quiet, save for the faint splash of water, clink of dishware, and the fire’s crackling. He inhales deeply, lips pursed. _Never have found a good way to break bad news_.

“He’s a Changeling. Jaskier and I will be back tomorrow to do the exchange.”

For a moment, Katarzyna’s shoulders sag and she holds herself up against the counter. “It’s as I feared then.” The peasant sighs and resumes her task. “Until tomorrow then, Geralt. Good night.” Wordlessly, he heads outside. Jaskier is leaning against the porch, slowly petting Roach.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“I’m sorry.” The bard’s arms, already wrapped firmly around him, tighten. He seems surprised. Geralt is glad that it’s dark. And that he can’t see his companion’s face. It makes this easier. Seeing Jaskier’s quiet sulking— _offense_ — and how the others had treated him at dinner has caused the witcher to have some realizations. “For not trusting you, I—”

“Geralt—” Jaskier says softly. He doesn’t sound angry anymore.

“No,” he says firmly, hands gripping the reins. “You were right to be angry with me.” _I know how it feels, to be seen as little more than a fleshy machine, a mere tool— used and then swiftly discarded_. The bard remains quiet, so he continues, “I- am not used to people wanting to trust me—” _Least of all Fay, or even a simple villager_. “Or wanting me to trust them… But I can try.”

Geralt holds his breath. It’s neither exactly a promise, nor an apology. While the witcher can’t force himself to trust Jaskier, he does feel badly about this shortcoming and he’s… not opposed to the idea of _trying_. But what happens next is all up to Jaskier. “That’s all I’m asking.” The statement is simple, and short, but sincere.

He breathes.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“Hold him tightly, Geralt. This won’t hurt the babe, but I can’t imagine that it tastes very pleasant either,” Jaskier mutters. He obliges silently, wincing at the Changeling’s grating shrieks. He’s glad that the fae had persuaded Katarzyna to stay away. She’d probably be disturbed by this. Michael— the Changeling which has taken Michael’s place— does not want to drink the potion.

It’s just after dawn and they’ve returned to do the exchange. Last night, after his apology, Jaskier had come up to his room and explained how everything should go… Or at least Geralt _thought_ he had. The Changeling doesn’t seem to be the biggest fan of the silver dagger which Jaskier unexpectedly withdraws (with a gloved hand) from his pocket. Neither is he, for that matter. “Jaskier—”

Before the witcher can say anything else, the fae cuts the pad of his pointer finger, digging the blade in until it hisses slightly and blood drips from the wound. It smells faintly sweet to his finely-tuned senses. But that isn’t the reason he’s alarmed. “You said that this was _simple_ ,” Geralt growls, holding the screaming child away from himself, temples throbbing.

“Ah, I did,” Jaskier agrees, smiling. There’s something alarming in it, something simultaneously primal and not of this world. “And it is. But I also said that there was a risk if I used magic to help you, so.” Promptly, he marches forward, gesturing for Geralt to lay the Changeling on the ground.

“Blood magic,” Geralt realizes, guts churning. He sets Michael— not-Michael— down and steps back. The Changeling seems to have calmed some since taking the potion.

“Right,” the fae agrees distractedly. He steps forward and crouches down beside the baby, drawing an elaborate symbol on the Changeling’s forehead with his bloody finger. Next Jaskier mutters a series of words in a language simultaneously as smooth as an ancient mountain stream and just as cold. Geralt can’t quite repress the shudder which runs down his spine. Then the fae quiets and the unnerving feeling dissipates.

For a few seconds, nothing happens.

The Changeling babbles sleepily, and then— a great crack suddenly appears in the ground and swallows the Changeling whole. It then reseals itself. Just as he’s leaping forward, there’s a low rumbling and then… the grass and dirt bubble upwards (in the same spot as before) and a mound forms beneath the grass. It splits and there—

“Ah, perfect! Here we are, Geralt: one completely normal human babe, as you requested,” Jaskier says, sounding a bit tired. He swiftly picks up the baby— the _real_ Michael— and brushes a bit of dirt off him. The babe slumbers peacefully, even as he’s placed into the witcher’s arms.

Rendered quite speechless, Geralt accepts the warm, sleeping bundle. As he turns around, the fae mutters a few more words and the rend in the ground seals itself. Soon it’s as if nothing happened. They wrap the baby in the blanket which Katarzyna lent them and go to return Michael to his mother.

A few weeks after they leave, a ring of Foxgloves— the exact color of blood— sprout at the spot. They don’t wither, even during winter, for another sixty years or so. “They were first there when I was a wee thing,” Alderman Michael will recount as he rocks slowly in his chair a lifetime later. None of the village children quite believe him, but they claim to anyway. Their parents always say to listen to the elders, after all.

No one mentions the strange man who appears right after the flowers do, then vanishes just as quickly.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Jaskier frowns thoughtfully once they’re well away from Katarzyna’s home, the pale dawn light changed to that of mid-morning. It’s evident that he’s wanted to say something for a while.

When it came time to collect his pay, Geralt had weighed the coin purse, certain that it contained less than what he was owed. But he hadn’t commented on it. Once she saw that there was no risk of retribution, Katarzyna had looked up, eyes tear-filled, _relieved_ , and whispered, “Thank you, Master Witcher. For everything. Thank you!” He’d nodded then and they’d been on their way, listening to the fading sound of a baby’s giggles as he’s bounced on his mother’s hip.

Apparently, the incident still merits discussion.

“She short-changed you, Geralt,” Jaskier observes, sounding confused, a bit frustrated, and something else.

The witcher snorts, half-amused, half-irritated at having to explain himself. “Did you see the state Katarzyna was living in? At least _she_ had a good reason to underpay me, unlike others.” Geralt represses a scowl at the thought of all the others who have tried to cheat him over the years: lords, merchants, kings. All rich men who thought that he didn’t deserve fair pay even after they promised it.

The bard makes a confused sound. “What do you mean, ‘the others?’ Why would anybody underpay— you’re a _hero_ , Geralt.”

They nearly collide because he stops so suddenly. Jaskier gives him a puzzled look. Geralt shakes his head, willing himself to carry on. But he can’t. Those words have frozen him, sent him reeling. _No one’s called me a **hero** in… a very long time. Possibly ever_. “Geralt?” Jaskier asks, poking his arm unsubtly.

He blinks. “What gave you that impression?”

The other man’s brow unwrinkles as he sees that the witcher is with him again. “What d’you mean? Why do I think that you’re a hero?”

Geralt nods, a pang of feeling running through him at that label, at it being applied to _him_.

Jaskier chuckles, then sighs. “Well, as you know, we Fay don’t get out much— but we still follow the happenings outside our sphere. It always seemed pretty fucking heroic to me that a person, a _mortal_ , would go about slaying foul beasts and saving people; of course, I was unaware of your mutations at the time, but my point still stands. Tell me, is what you do _not_ heroic?” Those blue eyes innocently, and earnestly, seek out his own. _He really wants to know the answer_.

Although the contract’s over and he’s no longer obligated to answer, Geralt finds that he wants to. “No. Most people… do not think of what I do as ‘heroism.’ I solve their monster problems for coin, that’s all.” _It’s what I was made to do_. His part said, the witcher turns firmly away and resumes walking. He ignores Jaskier’ sigh and the nearly-visible aura of discontent he gives off. It’s beyond his ability to help.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“Let me come with you.”

The demand is sudden, in that they have remained silent since Jaskier’s rather shocking comments. The witcher has also been busy packing up his things. Yet, when he really thinks about it, the request is not unexpected. Rather, it feels like something that the fae has been thinking over and finally decided to say.

“What?” Geralt asks carefully, just to make sure.

Jaskier takes this, as he seems to with most things, in stride. “Let me come with you— traveling. I could be your barker, your bard, spreading ballads and stories of witchers’ good deeds throughout the land to help others see how heroic you actually are.”

He sighs disgruntledly, because after everything, he doesn’t want to say no. Geralt knows that he _should_ say no, but he doesn’t want to. As the witcher looks at Jaskier, his gaze goes soft and pleading. _Damn it_. He recalls ~~Jaskier’s speech~~ their conversation about trust. “You’ll just follow me around if I refuse, won’t you?”

“I most certainly will.”

Geralt sighs, more for show than out of actual annoyance. Really, he feels… terrifyingly _excited_ by the prospect. “Fine. I suppose there’s no harm in you tagging along.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you live in the U.S. and are able to, **VOTE**. Please. It’s kinda important this year… 
> 
> Okay, I KNOW that ‘Big Mike’ is extremely anachronistic, but I couldn’t help myself, it was too funny XD. Also I actually have no idea of when Yo-yos were invented.


	7. Favors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt returns to the Path— with company this time. He and Jaskier begin their travels as a unit and while some things change, others remain the same. However, the witcher still finds himself wondering how the fae’s presence will affect his work. But he won’t for much longer.

The first few days after they leave Velen are considerably awkward. Aside from the few and far between settlements the witcher and fae pass, they’re surrounded by wilderness, with only each other for company. Geralt doesn’t know how much— or even if— he’s supposed to fill the silence. He’s never been a particularly loud or talkative person, less when he doesn’t even know _what_ to talk about. Jaskier is friendly enough, but Geralt doesn’t know a thing about the fae, really. Similarly, he doesn’t know much about his habits.

That first day, Jaskier disappears for a bit, returning with a pack full of supplies— spare clothes, a bed roll, a dagger, other useful things— and he usually acts fairly Human-like. It also turns out that he does eat and sleep, though not as much as a mortal might. After getting more-or-less used to each other’s peculiarities, they bumble their way through establishing a routine. Once that’s done, well. Jaskier is actually a good traveling companion, and traveling with him is not that different from what he’s used to.

In many ways, it’s pleasant to now have a companion. Jaskier is able to pull him out of his own head, and Geralt would have once worried about this seemingly supernatural ability, but now he knows that that’s just who the fae is: sociable. A people person. Anyway, it’s nice to have someone to talk to sometimes besides Roach. He also gets a new perspective on traveling. Certain details which a witcher would never ordinarily notice— a peculiarly pretty patch of flowers, sweet birdsong, a lush meadow— are things which Jaskier _does_ spot, and he has no qualms about pointing them out Geralt.

Even the annoying bits: the incessant humming, Jaskier’s almost pathological inability to remain still, are not so bad after a while. Often times he drops the bardic glamor if they’re far enough away from Human dwellings, so Geralt doesn’t even have to listen to constant lute-playing, as he feared he would. But when he does play, or sing, or even hum, Geralt is forced to admit that he’s not without talent. The witcher would even venture to say that the fae has a… pleasant voice. Jaskier’s music also works to distract him from the darker thoughts in his head.

However, while many things don’t change, some do.

After returning from a hunt, he no longer needs to start a fire— Jaskier’s done it. Somehow they never quite seem to run out of firewood either. Even if the area they’re overnighting in is sparsely vegetated, Roach inevitably finds a patch of grass to munch on. Geralt will also wake mysteriously dry— or near enough it— despite having gone to sleep in a downpour with little shelter. His shirts tear less often, and his boots don’t need polish quite as frequently. In short, there are a million little things Jaskier does that save time from the less glamorous side of being a witcher, or simply a person who spends the majority of their life on the road. Geralt doesn’t quite know what to say, how to acknowledge the help, so he doesn’t. The fae continues assisting him anyway.

• ~ * ~ •

One aspect of life on the Path which _actually_ remains unchanged is the contracts.

In every town they pass through, one of the first things he does is to check the noticeboard or talk to the innkeeper or alderman. Not all the places they visit require his services, and neither is Geralt welcome everywhere. While he looks for work, Jaskier makes himself unobtrusive by staying at their table, leaning against the bar, or by standing a few feet away as the witcher carefully scans various pieces of parchment or talks to someone.

The fae also says nothing as Geralt heads out on his hunts alone.

This is probably the most awkward part of their… arrangement. Geralt is not a wordsmith by any means— out of all of the Wolves, that title belongs firmly to Eskel— and Jaskier’s openly emotional style of communication makes him feel uncertain at the best of times. The witcher has had to push himself hard just to allow the fae into his life as much as he has; this only really happened through Jaskier’s (at times pointed) insistence. In short, he’s not the type to bring up emotional subjects if he doesn’t have to.

However, this does not mean that he’s a complete emotional ignoramus. Geralt knows that Jaskier would like to talk about why he isn’t invited on contracts, would maybe like to ask if there’s more he can do… But he doesn’t bring it up, so the witcher doesn’t either. Instead, he continues to head out alone, fight whatever monster he’s been hired to, and return to their campsite considerably dirtier than before.

• ~ * ~ •

After some time, Geralt finally does the brave thing and starts talking. _If only the others could see me now_ , he thinks. He’s dragged from his thoughts abruptly as Jaskier bends pensively over his lute, notebook balanced precariously on one knee, and scribbles something down. His tongue is peeking out of his mouth slightly. “Yes, Geralt?” the fae asks without looking up.

He feels an electric jolt run up his spine, almost as if he’s a youth again, and has just been caught out by Vesemir himself. The witcher sits up and stiffly clears his throat. _Actually they’d probably be **appalled** that I’m so comfortable with a member of the Fair Folk_, he amends mentally. “About my contracts,” Geralt begins slowly. Jaskier sets aside his notebook and gently adjusts his lute so that it’s hanging on his back by the strap. His eyes look particularly blue in the low firelight. The witcher swallows again.

“Witchers don’t typically rely on anyone else, and I… don’t want to burden you,” Geralt says slowly. What he means is: _I neither wish to make you resentful for doing more work when you already help me so much nor lose my skill_. Because a soft witcher is a dead witcher. If he drops his guard for a single moment, it will be enough time for someone— even an ordinary Human someone— to gain the upper hand. Perhaps fatally so. Witchers may be tough to kill, but that doesn’t mean the task is impossible. Far from it, in fact.

Besides, the fae is sure to grow bored if he helps with Geralt’s brutal, gruesome work and will leave sooner than he otherwise might. The witcher’s opinion and knowledge of the Fair Folk is evolving, but he can draw some conclusions. Jaskier is nigh immortal, and _will_ eventually realize that he has better things to do than follow around a brutish bastard like himself. Surprisingly, Geralt realizes that he’d like to avoid that inevitability for as long as possible. And not just because he appreciates all the small favors which the fae does for him.

Jaskier’s eyes widen momentarily, then an unreadable blankness settles over his face. This is vaguely alarming, and Geralt feels his face frowning quite without conscious permission. The fae asks, distracting him from his inner turmoil, “Wait, you _knew_ about my help?”

He snorts, barely avoiding an eye-roll. “I’m a _witcher_ , Jaskier. Noticing things is kind of my job.” To say nothing of the many ways that Geralt is… special.

The fae nods hesitantly, brow furrowing for a brief moment. “And you don’t mind—”

“Why would I? You’ve done barely more than what a normal Human traveling companion could. Besides, it allows me to focus on the more important things. I’m not inherently opposed to magic, Jaskier— that would be deeply hypocritical of me.” Geralt stops himself before he says too much, but can’t quite suppress his grimace.

“Oh, right. You have your signs and such,” the fae mutters.

“Yeah, my _signs_ ,” he agrees lowly. _Just my signs, and not an unloving **sorceress** for a mother_.

He realizes that he’s been silent for too long when he glances up and sees Jaskier just… looking at him. “Was there something else?” the fae asks.

“Not really.” _Didn’t want you to think something was going on. That I don’t trust you still_.

Jaskier nods. But then, he leans forward again, clasping his hands worriedly in a very Human way. “I understand that you need to stay sharp, and that doing the job well is important to you, Geralt. But what if,” he swallows suddenly, and hesitates. “What if there’s something big? Some monster you can’t easily handle?”

He stops himself from replying automatically with something crass but true, like: ‘Then I’ll simply perish, and probably be eaten.’ Jaskier won’t want to hear that. Surprisingly, he doesn’t want to _say_ it either, even if he believes it. “I’ll just have to manage somehow.”

The look he gets in return nearly makes Geralt duck his head in shame. Yeah. That was pretty obviously bullshit even before he actually said it. Jaskier sighs and sits up again. “ _If_ there is ever something too big, too ornery, don’t think that I won’t be willing to help you.” He stares at the witcher again across the fire, and Geralt is rendered speechless for a long moment by the warmth which sparks in his gut, the way the fae’s eyes sparkle in the firelight.

“Okay.”

Somehow Jaskier seems to understand him despite his short reply. The fae offers a smile and briefly looks... almost inordinately fond of Geralt. “Then I shall only help with the big beasties when you ask me to. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Geralt replies, feeling unduly relieved. If only all his conversations could run so smoothly.

• ~ * ~ •

Midaëte arrives with its characteristic brightness, revelry, and extended daylight. This year he happens to be in a mid-sized village just east of Rivia which happens to be in need a witcher. There’s a Werewolf lurking about, and the Alderman is terribly upset because the village had spent a large amount of coin on this year’s solstice celebration; he’s not looking forward to canceling. Not that Geralt believes that even the minor threat of a Werewolf could completely halt the celebration; people are stupid that way.

“Have your party,” he says, “but keep it contained to the well-lit areas in town. Don’t allow anyone to wander off into the woods. I’ll get started tonight.” With a considering look at the contract, he gestures for Jaskier to follow him, and stuffs the parchment into his bag.

• ~ * ~ •

As soon as Geralt sets his things down and the door’s locked, Jaskier blurts, sounding almost child-like with excitement, “Are you- do I get to come with you on this one?”

Geralt sighs and skims over the contract once more. Werewolves can be quite fearsome, but it doesn’t sound like this one is too far gone; no one has been reported dead yet, which is always a helpful indicator in determining if he can break the curse or not. However, at these kinds of celebrations drunkenness is always paired with debauchery. There are sure to be at least a few people who ignore the Alderman’s warning and sneak off into the woods for some… mischief. And even not-very-dangerous werewolves will attack if they’re hungry or scared enough. The whole situation feels like a recipe for disaster.

“I could use your help on this one— as backup only,” Geralt admits.

The fae grins, sharp-toothed. “As backup only, got it! Is it completely terrible for me to say that I’m excited?”

• ~ * ~ •

He’s panting now, but that doesn’t matter. Instead, Geralt focuses on not tripping over the underbrush as the sound of panicky shouting turns to terrified shrieking. The witcher holds his silver sword aloft and ready. _Should’ve told the Alderman to cancel after all_. The moon has finally risen, and it’s brilliant and full.

At first, Geralt had been watching over the swaying, drunken crowd in the village center to make sure that the Werewolf didn’t attack there, but he’d soon been overwhelmed by the stench of beer and arousal, along with the loudness of the music— not particularly _good_ , according to Jaskier. So the witcher had briskly reminded the Alderman to keep the partying contained and retreated to the village outskirts to patrol. That was several hours ago.

Now, deep in the woods, he leaps over a fallen log and finally reaches the horny young couple, paying no attention to the woman’s barely-covered modesty or her partner’s hastily pulled on pants. The Werewolf is hulking across the small clearing from them, nostrils flared and mouth slightly open, revealing a wicked set of teeth. “Back away slowly. When you’re clear, run. Tell everyone to go back inside,” he orders lowly.

“Ri-right,” the young man agrees, all traces of drunken foolishness vanished from his tone. “Quickly, Julia, let’s do as the man says.” Geralt listens to the sound of their footsteps but doesn’t look back. His grip on his sword tightens as he keeps a wary eye on the Werewolf. But it hasn’t moved yet. However, a sharp predatory gleam soon enters its eye, which the witcher doesn’t like.

“Hey,” he hisses, smacking his thigh, “over here!” The monster’s head snaps to him. _Good_. “Jaskier!”

The fae materializes next to him and lets out a low whistle. “Oh my. That’s quite the beasty, witcher. What shall we do?”

The Werewolf’s nose wrinkles and its hackles raise. Overall it looks uncertain. His gaze darts sideways and he almost shudders. Jaskier looks… menacing. His teeth almost seem sharper, his form stronger, and his nails are like knives. Under the full moon, his color is bleached and his skin gleams like unblemished marble. He’s otherworldly and predatory. Geralt shakes himself out of his reverie and stalks forward. “Hold it still. I want to see if they can be reasoned with.”

“Got it,” Jaskier agrees. He must start doing some magic because his medallion begins vibrating like crazy. The witcher ignores this, striding forward quickly and pulling some sturdy rope out of his bag. Hopefully the Werewolf will be able to be contained between it and the fae’s magic.

As he moves closer, the smell of earth, sweat, dirty fur, and musk grows stronger. The witcher wrinkles his nose. The Werewolf growls and its muscles ripple, evidently trying to break free from the fae’s magic. Geralt pushes the back of its knees with his boot and the beast kneels. He quickly loops the rope around it and drags to a nearby tree, where he secures the monster. After another moment of consideration, he uncurls his silver chain and lays it in a circle around the Werewolf.

Somewhat tiredly— dawn cannot be far off now— Geralt steps back.

“Finally!” Jaskier calls from across the clearing. He reappears next to the witcher and stumbles, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder to catch himself. Geralt smells a peculiar smell, like burnt sugar, and glances sideways worriedly. The fae’s forehead is dotted with sweat. Jaskier smiles reassuringly at him and steps away. The Werewolf growls and snaps its teeth, but with their combined efforts, it’s been rendered powerless.

“You alright?” Geralt asks, gaze not moving away from the Werewolf, which the fae is now circling curiously. He realizes that his sword grip has tightened unconsciously.

“Oh, I’m just fine. Only a bit tired— this will make an excellent song, witcher! Why, I can call it something like… oho! _The White Wolf and The Werewolf_ — on account of your marvelous hair, and that fearsome scowl too. I think this will be a quite popular ballad indeed.”

Geralt stops scowling and, though he’d like to tell Jaskier off for the… commentary on his hair, he instead replies, “I’m afraid that it won’t be much of a ballad with the titular monster still running around.”

The fae rolls his eyes. “Well, yes, Geralt! But I wasn’t going to perform it until after we’ve finished. I was just planning… Speaking of, what’s the plan here?”

He sighs and puts his sword away. “We’ll have to wait until our furry friend has returned to their normal form. Then we explain the situation, and break the curse.” Geralt walks over to a neighboring tree, sits cross-legged at its base, takes off his sword harness, and settles in to wait. Through closed eyes, he senses Jaskier settle in beside him.

• ~ * ~ •

As dawn breaks, warming his skin, breaching the darkness of his closed eyelids, Geralt stretches, startling slightly when he feels somebody leaning against him. But it’s just the fae, who was evidently more tired out from his magic than he’d thought: Jaskier’s asleep. His breath ruffles the witcher’s hair slightly. Geralt shakes his head and tries to ignore the odd swooping feeling in his stomach. “Wake up, Jaskier.”

The fae jolts awake and blinks. His eyes widen momentarily as he takes in Geralt’s proximity and realizes what must have happened. “Oh, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts, getting to his feet. “Let’s go find out who our Werewolf is.”

• ~ * ~ •

It’s a boy. He’s trembling and naked, legs and arms drawn close to his body. Geralt feels a pang of alarm at the overwhelming _fear_ which leaks from the boy. _No wonder he wasn’t as aggressive as a normal Werewolf_. “Hey,” he murmurs, dropping into a crouch. “Can you tell me your name, son?” The boy only trembles more, staring wide-eyed at him. The fear-stench increases and Geralt’s heart drops.

Suddenly he smells magic— heady magic, magic which almost makes him woozy— and Jaskier is crouched down by his side. The boy calms. And there’s now a blanket wrapped around him. Geralt shakes his head and repeats: “Can you tell us your name?”

“Th-Thomas,” the boy answers shakily. “Why’m I here, sir-sirs?”

Geralt swallows. _Wasn’t expecting a fucking kid_. His gaze darts sideways to the fae. Jaskier seems to understand, for he moves forward— now shifted into his bard form— and says gently, “Well, Thomas, there was a monster, and Geralt here is a witcher. These’re magic ropes, meant to protect whoever is tied in them, and we were guarding you from it. Can you tell us what you remember of the night before? Who your parents are?”

The boy looks wide-eyed at him, but not fearfully this time. “You fight monsters!”

“I do.”

“Big, scary ones?”

“Oh, the biggest! The scariest! I’ve seen it myself,” Jaskier whispers solemnly.

Thomas grins and sits up, pulling the blanket more tightly around himself. “Wicked!” Then he frowns. “I… don’t remember much. The full moon? Someone shouting? I live outside the village a little— my father’s a farmer.”

“Can you show us the way there? I’m sure your folks are worried.” Jaskier says, shooting a glance at Geralt.

 _I hope for his sake that they are_ , the witcher thinks darkly. He stands slowly, so as not to startle the young Werewolf, and gathers his things. Surprisingly, the fae’s spell seems to have eliminated all of the boy’s fear, or maybe he’s just naturally curious after all and Jaskier only calmed him. Either way, as soon as he’s got his bag and his swords, Thomas scrambles to his feet and grabs one of Geralt’s large, gloved hands. He barely keeps his eyes from widening.

Over Thomas’s head, he sees Jaskier grin.

“Can you tell me about some of the monsters you’ve fought?” the boy asks.

“Mm. I can,” Geralt says slowly. “Which do you want to hear about first: Ghouls, Nekkers, or Drowners?”

“All three!”

• ~ * ~ •

Thomas’s parents are indeed relieved to see him. Less so to see Geralt or his twin swords. As the boy’s mother is hugging him, the witcher pulls the father aside and mutters, “We need to talk.”

The parents take the news that their son is a Werewolf surprisingly well, and his guess about the boy’s curiosity proves to be correct. “He’s always been sharp, perhaps too much so,” Dylan, the father, mutters. He rubs his face and sighs. “But this… can you fix it, Witcher?”

In the ensuing silence, Jaskier’s voice and Thomas’s laughter filter through the thin walls.

“I can make no promises for a cure, but I will certainly try to save your son,” Geralt replies carefully. “But I’ll need to know more first.”

“That’s all we ask,” Dylan says, sounding upset, nonetheless. “We’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”

• ~ * ~ •

It turns out to be nobody’s fault. Well, not exactly. Years ago, a Witch lived nearby the village, but she’d either moved on or died— no one’s quite sure which. Subsequent generations were warned not to approach her house, but apparently, Thomas must not have listened. “We told him not to stray from the property,” Thomas’s mother, Claire, says. She holds a bit of her skirt in her hand and is twisting it nervously. Geralt’s face darkens because surely even a fool would have realized that this is important information. And the Alderman is not a fool.

“Oh, William didn’t know,” Claire reassures him. “He only moved here a few years ago, after he married. In fact, most folks don’t. It’s only us locals who’ve got to worry.”

“I see,” the witcher replies, standing. “I need to inspect this house, and then I’ll be able to determine if it’s the cause of your son’s… condition.”

Dylan stands too. “I’ll take you there.”

• ~ * ~ •

 _There’s definitely something off here_ , Geralt concludes, frowning. And he’d know it even if his medallion weren’t trying to choke him and Yen’s necklace wasn’t throwing a fit. The hairs on the back of his neck rise and he almost shudders. It’s also too still. As if the local animals know to avoid the small, dilapidated stone house.

“Here we are, Witcher,” Dylan calls from across the road; he’d refused to come any closer. “I’ll be leaving, ‘less you need anything else?”

“No,” he calls back, distracted. “I’ll return later.”

• ~ * ~ •

“What are we looking for?”

Geralt jumps despite himself and halts his sword stroke a hairsbreadth from Jaskier’s neck. He scowls, heart thumping fast. “Don’t sneak up on me!” Feeling upset, the witcher sheathes his sword and stalks forward, occasionally crouching down to inspect the building’s molding remains for clues. Not at all concerned, the fae follows after him silently.

“I don’t like this place, Geralt,” Jaskier mutters after a while. “I don’t like it _at all_.”

“Why not?” He straightens up and looks inquiringly at his companion.

“Bad vibes. Evil’s been done here.”

“Hmm.” The witcher nods to himself, pleased to have confirmation. “Then we’ll have to cleanse it.”

Jaskier shudders. “I should hope so! I’m not surprised that poor boy’s been transformed if he spent time in a place like this.”

After finishing their inspection, Geralt and Jaskier return to the farm and inform Thomas’s parents about the situation. Then they head back to the village and he checks up on Roach and prepares for the night. “Need me to do anything?” the fae asks, hovering over the table where he’s sitting, grinding various herbs with his mortar and pestle.

“No,” Geralt replies distractedly. “But you should be ready for tonight, in case this goes wrong.”

• ~ * ~ •

An hour before midnight, Geralt rouses from his meditation, feeling a little irritable— this is his second night with no sleep. He shakes it off and finds that Jaskier is awake too. They creep downstairs and out to the stable; this will be a considerably shorter trip on horseback, and the witcher doesn’t believe Roach will be in any danger by accompanying them to the haunted house.

A short ride later, they dismount and he ties the mare’s reins to a tree across the road from the house— made more menacing by the cold moonlight. Geralt pays his unease no mind and walks purposefully toward the gaping dark hole where the door should be. “So we’re just… going straight to work, are we? No discussing the plan? What happens if something goes wrong?” Jaskier whispers, following him closely. Geralt turns slightly to glare, and the fae holds up his hands. “Okay, okay! Got it. You’re the monster expert and I am merely your backup. I’ll be quiet now.”

“Thanks.”

• ~ * ~ •

Curses are not _exactly_ a witcher’s domain, but they can be. Some monsters— actually quite a few— can be caused by curses. But how the curse is broken, _if_ it’s broken, is up to the individual witcher. Not all try to break curses. Some clients don’t care either. For many, a dead monster is the only acceptable result, even if it isn’t the monster’s fault for being monstrous. Generally, he tries to steer clear of the more difficult curses, leave them for a sorcerer to handle, but Geralt has been known to break a curse or two. He also knows more about them than the average witcher might, thanks to the sorcerous company he keeps.

“I _know_ that I said I’d keep quiet, but… why are you spreading herbs about and muttering?” Jaskier asks.

He sighs and stands up. “These are herbs specifically used for curse-breaking. And I’m saying an old spell. It’s supposed to clear a place of evil, generally.”

“ _Generally_ speaking,” the fae continues, ignoring his glare, “what’re the chances of this working?”

“I’ve used this method before. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. If the magic is weaker, it should be effective. If not…” he purses his lips. “Then we’ll have to try something else.”

• ~ * ~ •

After he’s laid a trail of ground-up herbs— sage, jasmine, and bay leaves mixed with alcohol— in every room, Geralt moves back through the house and casts Igni in the doorway. As planned, the alcohol makes the herb mixture flammable. He suppresses a sneeze at the potent scent, waiting until the fire is stronger and has spread to more of the rooms. Then the witcher turns to Jaskier, who has one eyebrow raised. “You should be ready in case anything… happens.”

“That’s rather vague,” the fae snarks, arms crossed over his chest. “‘Anything’ could be an enormous number of things, Geralt!”

“Well I’m not _sure_ what will happen if this doesn’t work, so: anything.” He smirks and turns away before Jaskier can see his amusement. Then the witcher inhales deeply, closes his eyes, and holds his palms out towards the house, fingers spread wide. “I call upon thee, oh Earthen Sprits! Oh, Sky Spirits! Ancient Gods! Come forth, cleanse this house of all evil and alien magicks, and restore it to balance and harmony with its surroundings. By our wills combined, so make it be.”

• ~ * ~ •

They return to the farm the following day at noon, and Geralt repeats the ritual. About halfway through the spell, Thomas cries out and convulses on the ground several times before falling still. The witcher exhales sharply and repeats the chant, muttering quickly. Distantly, he hears Claire shout something, followed by Dylan, and then Jaskier’s low, soothing voice murmurs something about not crossing the circle. He ignores it, caught up in the ritual. _Think I’ve almost got it—_

The boy shudders again, then blinks open his eyes. There’s a shadow over his face for a moment, then he relaxes and looks completely normal and not… wolf-like. “Am I better?” he asks, peering worriedly at the witcher.

“Yes,” Geralt answers firmly, rising to his feet and absently wiping off grass and dirt. “But you should sit still for a little longer; some people feel dizzy afterward. I’ll let you know when you can move again.” The boy nods and settles into place. He walks towards the others. Dylan and Claire— hell, Jaskier too— look at him anxiously. “Done what I can. Now we’ve just got to wait. I’ll stick around for a few days, and if he doesn’t change within that time, consider him cured.”

Thomas’s parents nod. Claire grabs his hand and squeezes it. “Thank you, Master Witcher. Is… what is the price, of this?”

Geralt blinks. “The Alderman paid for the contract. There’s no need—”

“Don’t be daft!” Dylan exclaims. He colors slightly at the witcher’s bemused look. “Sorry, I… we cannot, in good conscience, allow you to walk away without some reward.”

“I have an idea,” Jaskier butts in.

All eyes turn to him.

“Tell people about the White Wolf— that’s Geralt— and his good deeds. That way you can express your gratitude and the witcher gets some free publicity, maybe a little more coin on his next contract. A good deal all around, no?” Geralt, still feeling uncomfortable, merely shrugs.

Dylan grins. “Sounds acceptable to me! Thank you again, Witcher. We shall do our best to help your reputation.”

• ~ * ~ •

“Here,” Geralt says stiffly after they’re back on the Path once more. He thrusts the coin purse at Jaskier. “You did some of the work— helped me with the parents at the end too, so take your portion. It’s only fair.”

At this, the fae perks up and his smile warms the witcher’s heart more than it should. “Ah, thank you, my friend, you flatter me. But I must refuse your kind offer; I don’t quite know what I’d do with Human coin,” Jaskier replies smoothly. 

Geralt nods and tucks the coin purse away again. Something loosens in his chest. “Have it your way. Fortunately, I have an idea of what coin is good for.”

• ~ * ~ •

A few days after they leave the village, a strange man arrives, inquiring after its recent happenings. “We had a monster— an unfortunate situation, really. Turned out to be a little boy who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” answers Kate, the young barmaid who’s been assigned to this man’s table.

“I see,” the stranger says; his accent sounds vaguely Cidarisian but then again not _quite_. There’s something… unnerving about it. “I take it from your use of the past tense that this monster is no longer a problem?”

“You’d be right, Sir. We had a witcher come through here about a month ago.”

“Did he stay long? I hear Witchers are brutish and solitary by nature.”

“Mm, no, he didn’t. But he wasn’t alone either! There was a young man— a bard, I believe— brown hair, youthful, who came and went with him. Seemed pretty curious that he’d be in the company of someone like a witcher, but then. Bards aren’t exactly _known_ for their common sense, are they?” Kate and the stranger share a brief laugh, and it’s almost enough to make the off feeling in her stomach retreat. Almost.

He smiles. “Well, it sounds as if you all have had quite an adventure. I thank you for the amusing tale.” The stranger pays for the nearly-untouched drink and is on his way. Kate can’t quite say that she’s sorry to see him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a lot of liberties in this chapter— don’t have much of an idea of how Werewolves work canonically— and I got my information on curse-breaking from here and Geralt’s ‘spell’ is adapted from here. 
> 
> Things are going to start _happening_ soon, and I am VERY excited 😉. With luck, I’ll be able to have the next few chapters up more quickly. We’ll see. 
> 
> This was also going to originally be 7k, as I had a few other events thrown in here, but I thought that that might be too long. How are people feeling about chapter lengths?


	8. Contradictions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they continue their travels, Jaskier and Geralt steadily acclimate to one another, and deepen their bond. Yet even with the fae’s help, not everything is smooth sailing— of course it isn’t. Geralt is still a witcher after all. So when things _do_ inevitably go wrong, this tests their newfound friendship. In the process, more information about Jaskier’s background is revealed.

Their relationship changes once more after the Werewolf. Not only does Jaskier now occasionally accompany him on hunts, but he also begins working to advance his bardic career, making good on his promise to be the witcher’s barker. Geralt had initially doubted the sincerity of the fae’s claim in Velen that he wanted to rehabilitate his reputation— or that he even could. The witcher had been even more doubtful of the other man’s ability to do such a thing through the power of music. Although he is still disinclined to believe that Jaskier’s efforts will ultimately pay off, he is _clearly_ trying.

As the summer wears on, more and more songs proclaiming the virtues of witchers— a sentiment he’d _never_ thought anyone would express aloud, let alone in _song_ — are written and Jaskier, in bardic form, goes to work, telling of Geralt’s exploits, the monsters he’s slain, the people he’s saved; with ~~far too much~~ some embellishment, of course. “That just makes it all the more interesting, Geralt. It’s nothing against you,” he claims.

Listening to the songs in public is uncomfortable, but in the taverns and inns which Jaskier is (more and more frequently) invited to play at, he is paid little attention, can almost pretend that it isn’t him the bard is singing about. When they’re alone it’s a different story. Sometimes Jaskier will merely hum a small part of a larger ballad he’s working on, and Geralt will be lost in the melodic tones of his voice for a while as Roach carries him forward on the Path. Worse is when he truly can’t escape the… intimacy. The truth that Jaskier is writing and singing about _him_.

Sometimes the bard will play something at night after they’ve eaten, as they sit in front of the fire. He’s a performer, and so craves audience feedback, even if— _especially if_ — it’s from him. Jaskier will sing songs about the witcher _to_ the witcher while reading his face for feedback, as if he truly cares what Geralt thinks. So he is forced to sit there, night after night, listening as the bard sings his praises. The songs do strange things to his insides. They make him feel as if he’s a small creature that has lived its entire life beneath a rock, and is now seeing light for the first time. It’s startling and more than a bit uncomfortable, and he’s confused, but he is also awestruck by the sheer brilliance. The thing is, he likes the bard’s moniker: ‘The White Wolf’ a hell of a lot more than he ever did ‘The Butcher of Blaviken.’

• ~ * ~ •

It seems that things are perfectly capable of going wrong even with powerful magic at one’s disposal. Geralt understands now why Yen would get irritated with him after he asked why she “couldn’t just” do something using her magic. Despite Jaskier’s freely-given help, sometimes things become fucked up through no fault of their own: they’ll have arrived too late to prevent a slaughter, or won’t have been given all the necessary information before a hunt, or it isn’t in fact a monster that they’re after but a Human, and so the best the witcher can do is to try and expose that particular person’s depravity and let others judge them.

This doesn’t often work; he should’ve learned his lesson with Stregobor. But he hasn’t, because Geralt is a fool who keeps hoping that people will learn to do better, even if they never seem to. Something like that happens this time, and he kills the bastard who’d dared hurt his own family— despite the man’s importance— and subsequently gets himself and Jaskier banished from that particular village. While the fae understands many aspects of Human society, when he doesn’t, he somehow expects that _Geralt_ will be able to explain things to him.

“Sometimes people are horrible,” is the best explanation the witcher has this time.

But apparently, this isn’t a satisfactory answer. “There is— yes, we can be evil, but there’s usually some _reason_ , even small and irrational or petty, for our actions,” Jaskier half-asks, half-states.

“Evil is evil,” Geralt mutters, rubbing his eyes. He has a headache from all the shouting. “There’s no explanation for it, Jaskier, it just… _is_.” He’s been around long enough to learn this at least. In his opinion, it’s better to simply acknowledge evil’s presence than go mad trying to understand it. It doesn’t matter _why_ evil exists, only that it does, and that it needs stopping. Trying to understand the reason behind it would be like attempting to carry water in a sieve.

“But—”

“Enough!” he barks.

Jaskier blinks, looking taken aback. While Geralt is often grumpy, sullen, or withdrawn, he is rarely angry. It’s even more uncommon for him to yell. Especially at Jaskier. “Alright, sorry. I— I’ll leave you alone for a while,” the fae says, blinking out of sight before the witcher can reply. Geralt feels the sharp bite of loneliness, and thinks before he can stop himself, _Hopefully Jaskier comes back_.

• ~ * ~ •

While Geralt is no stranger to drinking, he rarely overindulges. Firstly, it’s difficult and expensive for a witcher to get drunk, and secondly, it’s a great way to get robbed, or worse. A distant third reason is that the witcher is rarely in the sort of company which he feels comfortable being drunk around. But that night, when Jaskier stays away for long enough that he has to build the fire himself, Geralt pulls out a bottle of vodka and drinks.

A few hours later, the witcher is still feeling melancholic enough that he sets aside the vodka in favor of the White Gull he has leftover from last winter. Jaskier, as he is wont to do, returns abruptly from wherever it is he goes when he isn’t by Geralt’s side. Despite himself, Geralt perks up. A kind of desperate relief rushes through him. _He came back_.

“Of course I did, what did you think— oh.” Jaskier crouches at his side, frowning. Geralt blinks at him fuzzily; there’s the barest hint of color in the witcher’s cheeks. “Are you alright?”

With one clumsy hand, Geralt pulls off his medallion and puts it in his pocket— the witcher has little patience for its constant rumbling in his drunken state; he doesn’t wear Yen’s necklace anymore except on hunts. “I’m just fine, Jaskier.”

The fae shoots him a look, and his blue eyes fill with worry for a moment. _Don’t ask don’t ask don’t ask_ , he repeats in his head. Jaskier plops down beside him suddenly. Geralt tenses again when the other man opens his mouth. But all he says is: “Care to share whatever it is you’ve _clearly_ been indulging in?”

He laughs darkly. “S’White Gull. Dunno if it’ll kill you, but— better not test that out. You can have vodka ‘stead.”

“I would love some of this ‘vodka,’” Jaskier agrees.

The witcher blinks, then frowns, remembering something. “Probably won’t get you drunk, considering—” he waves a hand in the general direction of Jaskier. “Just... thought you should know.” He drops his hand heavily and stares at the bottle. **_Can_** _fae get intoxicated off of Human alcohol?_

A quiet snort breaks him out of his pondering, and Geralt glares at Jaskier. “Thank you for the warning, my friend. I don’t really care if it gets me drunk or not.” _Good enough_ , he thinks, handing over the bottle.

For a moment, the fae merely turns it over in his long fingers, inspecting the bottle curiously. During this time, Geralt watches, a small and amused smirk on his lips. Thankfully, Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he concludes his inspection, then unscrews the cap and (inadvisably) takes a long drink. Afterward, he screeches— in an entirely _inhuman_ way— and pronounces loudly: “Oh, that is bitter! _Ugh_.”

Despite himself, Geralt chuckles. “You’ll get used to it.”

Jaskier looks at him dubiously. “And why ever would one desire to ‘get used to’ this?”

“Well…” the witcher pauses, considering the question. _Perhaps the Fay don’t really drink?_ This could be another of their cultural differences. He leans back, and stares into the fire, thinking. “It _can_ help make your problems seem… more distant. Most of the time, though, it’ll just make ‘em bigger.”

“I see” is the only thing Jaskier says.

They fall silent after that. Although the late summer air has a bit of a chill, between the drinking and the fire, he’s warm enough. Geralt absently listens to the fire’s popping and crackling, the distant scurrying of some woodland creatures, and his own too-loud breathing. Like everything else about him, Jaskier’s breathing is eerily silent. Abruptly, however, he realizes that the fae is _sniffing_ him. Geralt swallows and shoots his companion a puzzled look.

Jaskier blinks at him and smiles coyly. “You never told me if vodka intoxicates Witchers.”

“If I have ‘nough, yeah. White Gull’s better though.”

The fae nods. Then he takes another swig and grimaces. “That’s still foul. How long does it take to get used to it? I could just pop back home and grab some fruit, or something…”

Geralt growls, and clumsily tries to snatch the bottle away. “ _No food_ ,” he insists. “Don’t wanna be stuck forever.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen in a nearly genuine-looking expression of surprise and dismay. “Oh! I didn’t mean— I wouldn’t try to _trap_ you, Witcher. I’m not that cruel… well, mostly.”

“Hmm,” is all he has to say to that.

Geralt manages to snatch the bottle back— he’s long since finished off the White Gull— and can’t hold back a triumphant smirk at the accomplishment. He inspects the vodka for a moment, then takes a swig. An idea hits him suddenly. “Got somethin’ that might… make it better.” He gets to his feet and stumbles towards his bag. Several days ago he’d found a patch of wild strawberries— blooming very late for the season— and picked some as a treat for Roach. Hopefully their sweetness will be appealing to the fae. He carefully pulls out a few and staggers back to Jaskier, sitting with far less grace than usual. “Here. Try it with these.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier’s cool fingers brush lightly over his flat palm as the fae elegantly picks up a berry. His face looks positively _sinful_ as he bites into the strawberry— eyes closed in pleasure, mouth juice-coated— and then sips from the bottle. Geralt feels warm. All too quickly, the fae’s eyes open. “Mm, that _is_ better,” he murmurs.

The witcher averts his gaze hastily as Jaskier picks up another berry. He hears the fae take a careful bite and another swig of vodka. For some reason, even listening to this makes Geralt feel terribly uncomfortable.

• ~ * ~ •

Sometime later, he blinks and tears his gaze away from the dancing flames. _Jaskier is humming_ , Geralt realizes. The fae is also swaying slightly, long neck exposed as his head tilts backward to watch the sky; he can see the scar, which gleams faintly in the moonlight. “Jaskier?”

“Yes?”

“Are- are you _drunk_?”

“I might be,” Jaskier answers demurely.

Geralt feels his forehead wrinkle in confusion. “I thought that Fair Folk couldn’t get drunk on alcohol?”

Jaskier shakes his head loosely. “No, we can’t. But… let me tell you a _secret_ , witcher—” he leans in, so closely that his spring-scented breath ghosts over the shell of Geralt’s ear. He shivers, and a tingle of… _something_ rushes down his spine. “I’m not a pureblooded Fay.”

The witcher lurches upright and studies Jaskier more closely. “You’re not?”

His companion laughs, those same bell peals again. “No!” Then Jaskier sighs, and his expression goes serious. “I suspect you… realized that ’m a bit _unusual_. But I’m differenter than you may’ve imagined— my great, great grandfather bedded a Human. I su’pose you know what happens next. The Court didn’t like that.”

He frowns, an unpleasant thought suddenly wriggling to life in his head. “That why you spend so much time with me?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen comically. “No! I’m here ‘cause… because I like you, Geralt. You’re a good man. You try to help— well, everyone.”

The witcher feels faintly embarrassed. “Dunno how good I am at that. But, do understand. What it means t’ be… different.”

Jaskier gives him an odd, appraising look. “I suppose you do,” he replies softly. For a moment, Geralt imagines that they’re both thinking back to the conversation they’d had after completing the Changeling contract, or maybe what Jaskier had asked of the Werewolf’s parents— or any one of the times he’d witnessed someone mistreat the witcher. The fae, evidently _not_ as drunk as Geralt thought, rises to his feet a bit unsteadily, but nothing like he was earlier.

He frowns, a bit thrown off by that thought. Then Geralt hears that ethereal humming again, and Jaskier, having retrieved his lute, begins playing a slow, lilting melody. The witcher stays quiet, content to listen, and tries to place the tune. It feels _familiar_ — like a word that’s stuck on the tip of his tongue or some bit of swordsmanship which has long become an ingrained habit. His eyelids soon grow heavy, and he begins to nod off to the high, pure sound of Jaskier’s humming and the soft plucking of lute strings.

The next morning, Geralt wakes up wrapped in his blanket, with a pillow awkwardly stuffed behind his head— without a hangover.

• ~ * ~ •

Even after several weeks of careful consideration, he is still unsure of how to tactfully begin this particular conversation. But the witcher has never shied away from asking difficult questions, even if doing so is sure to cause him strife later. He’s been churning over that night in nearly every spare moment he has. While there are several things about it that bother him, Geralt’s chief concern is how Jaskier’s drunken revelations about his heritage have highlighted how many things he still doesn’t know about the fae. Such as his Court alignment.

Trust flows both ways, and while he _has_ struggled to be open with Jaskier, really the fae has not been that open with him either. The only thing he really knows about Jaskier is that he’s nobility of some kind— unless that information is incorrect too— likes music, is better at socializing among Humans than he himself is, and looks young. Also that he’s a good listener, is quick-witted, makes Geralt laugh as few others can, is occasionally irritable— He knows nothing of the fae’s family, his history. Really, all those speeches about trust seem almost hypocritical now.

The road before them is empty for the time being. They’re currently heading northwest, through Aedrin. Depending on their speed, and the weather, Geralt can either go through the small break in the Mahakam range into Redania or continue onward to Kaer Morhen after crossing the Pontar— but he’s getting ahead of himself. He’s got about a month left before he really needs to start towards the keep. _Might as well get this over with_. “Are you Unseelie?”

Jaskier stops playing, and the fading notes of his song haunt the air. “Yes,” he replies swiftly, raising his hands to resume playing. Geralt blinks, and his clear surprise at having his suspicions so easily confirmed must be more obvious than he’d thought. Or perhaps Jaskier just knows him that well. Either way, the fae hesitates again and raises one of his very expressive eyebrows. “Are you surprised, Witcher?” he asks, a barely-concealed challenge in his voice.

Geralt would like to think himself capable of learning from past mistakes, of having _some_ ability to be socially-conscious. He recalls Yen’s reaction to his diatribe against the Fair Folk all those months ago, and her subsequent disclosure about having Elven blood, and tries a different approach. His honest opinion, hopefully stripped of all negative value judgments: “A little. You’re not how I’d imagined an Unseelie.”

Jaskier grimaces— a flash of genuine resentment filling his eyes briefly. “And what, may I ask, would a ‘typical’ Unseelie fae be like?”

“I—” _evil, malevolent, ill-natured_ — none of these descriptors fit Jaskier. Sure he may occasionally act fearsome, and there is certainly something eerie and inhuman about him as well. He can be foul-tempered and mischievous too. But Jaskier is also kind, helpful, inquisitive, and courteous. Careful around Humans, and more than patient with him and his social fumbling and general awkwardness. Yet when Geralt thinks of the many horror stories about the Unseelie and the Winter Court he’s heard, he thinks: _monster_. His eyes widen momentarily. _Oh shit_.

 _Oh, shit_ , he realizes, with enough sudden, blinding clarity that it’s as if he swallowed an entire vial of Cat and then walked out under the midday sun. Jaskier thinks that witchers are _heroes_. But Geralt has been treating the fae exactly how everyone else treats _him_. He mistrusted Jaskier based off of something outside the fae’s control: his very nature. He’d relied on stories and rumors rather than personal experience to form his opinion.

Geralt has judged Jaskier not based on who he _actually_ is, but on what others have made him out to be. The witcher swallows, feeling vaguely sick. _Fuck_. Jaskier smiles sadly, perhaps having guessed his thoughts. “Not all Unseelie are malicious, and not every Seelie kind; unintentional cruelty can be just as devastating as regular cruelty.”

At a loss for words, he merely nods. _Of part-Human blood and a noble member of the Winter Court, yet empathetic to non-Fay_. From what the other man has hinted at, briefly touched upon in conversation, he thinks of himself as a bit of an outcast as well. Like Geralt. Jaskier, he realizes again, is not normal—

Or maybe his idea of what a ‘normal’ member of the Fair Folk is has been wrong this entire time.

• ~ * ~ •

The weather finally settles into the firm, biting cold which it’ll hold for the next several months as they cross the Pontar. Per usual, Geralt shivers at the unnerving feeling of the ley lines, and his medallion reacts rather more strongly than usual to Jaskier’s presence. They enter a small downtrodden village and the witcher mostly keeps his head down. The bard’s colorful dress earns him a few stares as well; Geralt had bought the other man a suitable coat, as his light, rich clothing is inappropriate for the colder climate of the northern kingdoms… or at least it would be for a Human.

“You know, Geralt,” Jaskier says, in a discrete effort to regain his attention, “I’m not quite sure what our destination is, but unfortunately, I fear we’ll have to get a move on if we are to reach it before I need to leave you for the winter.”

“Hmm,” he acknowledges, setting down his ale. “There is no destination. Or at least, not for _us_. I’ll soon be heading to Kaer Morhen. Until then, more contracts.”

“Ah. Practical as ever, I see. Well then, now that I know that, I can plan accordingly. I think I can stay for a couple more days. Let’s say another four or so?”

“Expected back at Court?” he asks calmly, so as not to pressure his companion into revealing more than he’s able.

“Yes,” Jaskier answers, sighing. “I find that one visit a year is quite enough.”

“Mm.” Geralt doesn’t ask anything more, even ‘Should I look for you in the spring?’

The bard picks up his forgotten mug and takes a long drink. Then he sighs again, dramatically, and looks the witcher straight in the eye. Even after all this time, Geralt is caught off guard by it. “Since I know _you_ won’t bother asking: would you mind meeting up in the spring?”

He carefully keeps the glare to a minimum, and replies: “No, I wouldn’t.”

Jaskier claps his hands delightedly. “Perfect! No need to track me down— I’ll find you.”

And four days later, when they do finally part, Geralt quashes the pang of unhappiness he feels by reminding himself that this separation is only temporary.

• ~ * ~ •

Unlike last winter, he spends almost no time in the library when he finally returns to Kaer Morhen. Why would he when the supposed-threat of the Changeling-leaving fae hasn’t materialized— and, he hopes, won’t— and Jaskier himself is no longer a threat. Surprisingly, both Lambert and Eskel comment upon his supposed newfound openness.

“Glad that you’re not lurking in the library anymore. Personally, I thought you were just sulking over that sorceress ex of yours—”

“Yennefer,” Geralt interjects tersely, never mind that he’s repeatedly told everyone he and Yen are no longer together, and that he shared this information _at least_ a decade ago, or that his brother has met Yen. Multiple times, in fact.

Lambert snaps his fingers, entirely unbothered. “That’s the one! I remember how mopey and annoying you were after a fight, or when she turned you down _again_. And again. And—” Geralt growls. The other witcher briefly holds his hands up in a show of surrender, but it doesn’t stop him from barreling onward. “Eskel thought you were in some sort of trouble. But I’m pretty sure that’s not it.” Lambert smirks and punches Geralt in the shoulder, none too gently. “Glad to have you back. Your angsting was starting to wear on me.”

 _Unbelievable_ , he thinks as Lambert walks away.

Eskel, of course, is more sensitive when he approaches Geralt. “I can see from your scowl that you’ve talked to Lambert,” he says a few hours later, sliding a tankard across the table.

Geralt accepts the drink silently, and takes a few deep pulls before setting it aside and responding. “I did. He… rather bluntly admitted he was glad that I wasn’t spending all my time in the library anymore.”

His brother nods sagely, lips turned up slightly. “I’m sure he phrased it more colorfully than that.”

“He did. Also mentioned that you were worried about me.”

Eskel carefully places one rough hand atop his and looks him in the eye. They sit like that for a good long moment. “I was,” he replies eventually. “But it seems that whatever you were dealing with is finished now, so… I’m not any longer.” He removes his hand from over Geralt’s and picks up one of the tankards, raising it in a toast and taking a long sip. Even though there’s nothing to feel guilty about, something still shifts uncomfortably in his gut. Geralt does his best to ignore the feeling.

• ~ * ~ •

When the snow melts, Geralt is the first to leave Kaer Morhen, as he always is— excepting last year. The witcher intends to be well away from the keep before Jaskier finds him, however that’s supposed to happen. As Geralt never received a date for their reunion aside from ‘spring,’ he imagines that it may be another few weeks’ wait yet before he sees the fae. So he might as well head in Yen’s direction for a quick meet-up.

However, only a few more days actually pass before Jaskier returns, appearing abruptly on the road before the witcher. Geralt carefully represses a grin. “Jaskier.”

“Geralt! How was your winter?”

“Good enough. How was Court?”

“Unpleasant as always! Ah well, it’s good to be back. Where are we off to first?”

He swallows, needing a moment to think it over. Despite repeatedly expressing a desire to meet the fae, Geralt has yet to discuss the possibility of an introduction with Yen. Perhaps it’s time to change that. The witcher sees no reason not to bring Jaskier with him now, as the fae seems just as eager to meet the sorceress; at the very worst, Yen will be a little put out that he didn’t give her time to prepare. “I’m going to see Yennefer, if you’d like to come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a distraction from election-anxiety, I finished this chapter; can pretty much guarantee that the next one is not going to be out as quickly. 
> 
> Is it gay to offer your fae companion strawberries, and then get turned as you watch him eat them? Asking for a friend. *sighs* Oh, Geralt! Don’t worry, he’ll get there eventually. Fun fact: I’ve actually had that scene written for **months** now, and have impatiently been waiting to share it— had a lot of fun with that part. 
> 
> Also, who’s excited for the clash of the titans, aka Yennefer meeting Jaskier? I am!


	9. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier arrive at Yennefer’s, and the fae and the sorceress make their introductions— not without some verbal sparring of course. But overall, the witcher is pleasantly surprised by how well it goes… and perhaps he _should_ be suspicious, because Yennefer has always been capable of adding more than a little chaos to a situation. In this case, it’s her fresh perspective and a series of questions that cause the upheaval.

“Stay back until I’ve talked to her,” he warns Jaskier. It’s only been a day since Geralt invited the fae to Yen’s with him, and the witcher has felt nervous about that decision ever since. He doesn’t regret it per se, but rather is now realizing all the ways this could go very wrong. Not least among them is that somehow Yen _and_ Jaskier end up never speaking to him again. Thus, whenever he feels a new wave of anxiety, Geralt has taken to blurting out random bits of advice for how to deal with Yennefer. He’s rather expert at that, after all.

The fae snickers then materializes a few feet in front of Geralt and starts walking backward, so he can keep sending amused, slightly-condescending looks at him. Somehow, Jaskier manages to avoid all the uneven bits in the road’s dirt surface. “While I find your concern touching, Geralt, I promise you that I’ll be _fine_. Your sorceress won’t be able to harm me.”

He snorts, amused and somewhat comforted despite himself. _If nothing else, this is sure to be interesting_. “Mm. That’s not what you said before. If I remember right, _someone_ wasn’t able to break through Yen’s warding.” The witcher sighs, trying for a more serious tone. “Be careful, that’s all I’m asking. And for the Gods’ sake, let me do the talking.”

“ _You_? Doing the talking?” Jaskier’s somewhat feigned incredulity makes Geralt simultaneously feel like groaning and smiling.

• ~ * ~ •

The journey to Yen’s is nowhere near as fraught as he remembers it being the last few times. While the witcher still feels some lingering unease at the idea of Jaskier and Yennefer meeting and _talking_ to one another, at least he doesn’t have to worry about the more mundane aspects of traveling, such as the need to keep watch. When one is accompanied by a member of the Fair Folk, there’s not much that can harm them. He even takes to sleeping without his armor.

Their days now end with Geralt bent over the fire, preparing a meal as Jaskier reclines against a log, rock, or sits across the fire from him, holding his lute and humming or singing as he plays. The fae seems to have finally realized that he doesn’t _truly_ mind the noise, and has taken that as blanket permission to play even more. Some nights he does nothing more than strum a slow melody and make soft noises that merely hint at lyrics. Others he will sing— loudly— for hours, an incongruently beautiful and unearthly accompaniment to the mundane tasks which the witcher performs.

Usually, the fae puts away his lute when Geralt gets out his bed roll, but sometimes not. Those nights, Jaskier will merely pause for a moment, nod at the witcher, and resume his performance at a quieter volume than before. Geralt’s no expert— and neither his medallion nor Yen’s necklace make a peep— but he still suspects that there must be some magic involved in these late-night performances. He finds that sleep comes more easily when Jaskier’s music fills his ears and that nightmares never happen.

• ~ * ~ •

By this point, the stable hand is familiar with both Geralt and Roach, and has seemingly lost most of her fear of the witcher; perhaps this is less surprising given that she’s employed by a sorceress. He readily hands over the reins and nervously directs Jaskier to follow him to the front door, almost hoping that a servant will answer it this time. If he’s nervous, the bard doesn’t show it— instead he looks around curiously, seeming keen to take every detail in. “You never told me that your sorceress is _rich_ ,” Jaskier hisses. “I might’ve popped back home for something a little nicer; appearances are an important part of making a good first impression!”

“Hadn’t noticed,” Geralt replies drily, just to see Jaskier squawk in irritation. He smirks.

“You witchers have a _terrible_ sense of humor,” the bard mutters a moment later. He quiets as they reach the door, and Geralt knocks.

• ~ * ~ •

“Ah, Geralt” Yen briefly sends him a smile before her eyes fix on Jaskier. “And who’s this?”

“My dearest, and _very_ fair lady Yennefer,” Jaskier says, striding past the witcher before he can get a word in edgewise. “I am Jaskier.” The sorceress’s eyes widen slightly, then her expression hardens into one of studious neutrality. This doesn’t bother the bard. He sweeps into an elegant, low bow. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance. Geralt has spoken very highly of you.” Jaskier extends his hand so that Yennefer will take it, and he can kiss hers. She does not.

Instead, Yennefer shoots Geralt a vaguely irritated, vaguely bemused look before looking back down at the bard. “I only let those whose true faces I’ve seen touch me. Unglamour yourself, and then maybe we’ll see if I allow you to kiss my hand.” The witcher, hanging back somewhat in case he’s required to break up a fight, panics slightly.

However, Jaskier doesn’t seem to take offense at Yen’s haughtiness. Instead, he straightens up, eyes gleaming slightly (in challenge or amusement, Geralt can’t tell) and there’s a subtle shift in the air. Magic. Then the humble, young bard is no more. In his place is Jaskier in his natural form. The wind has swept his hair back, so Geralt can just see the pointed tips of his ears. Despite there being no one else around, the witcher still feels a momentary pang of alarm. _It’s not safe for him to be unglamoured this close to—_ Yen’s suddenly keen gaze meets his and Geralt cuts off that thought.

The sorceress’s attention lingers for a moment longer, then her violet eyes flicker back to the fae and study him. “And you say _I’m_ the fair one,” she murmurs, a tad spitefully. “If Geralt weren’t so… himself, I’d say that he spared you for your looks alone, if not merit.” Although Yennefer isn’t looking at him, the witcher still feels the weight of her (slightly judgmental) attention. He forces himself not to bristle.

“Mm. It’s fortunate then that Geralt is a good judge of character—” Jaskier cuts himself off, and his crystalline blue eyes cut across Yen’s body. “Or at least that he is now.”

There is a moment of taut silence and Geralt’s heartrate spikes in a uniquely alarming way. _Damn it, Jaskier!_ His gloved hands clench, and he tenses, half prepared to throw himself between the fae and Yen. But surprisingly, he doesn’t have to. The silence is cut by Yennefer’s bark of a laugh. “Well met, fae.” Her smile is polite— if not particularly friendly— and Jaskier’s echoes it. Then the sorceress holds out her hand. Jaskier courteously presses it to his lips.

A moment later, it’s released. “It seems our Witcher does have some experience with the Fair Folk after all,” the fae murmurs.

Yen tenses slightly then rolls her eyes. “I’d hardly call myself a member of the Fair Folk; I’m only quarter-Elf. But your race has fallen far indeed if I’m mistaken.”

Jaskier laughs. “I knew there was a reason for Geralt’s interest. He’s rather… discerning in who he chooses for company, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Yen agrees slowly, gaze fixed on Jaskier, “he is.”

Not quite liking the direction of this conversation, the witcher steps forward and clears his throat. Yen and Jaskier’s gazes snap to his, and Geralt blinks, momentarily thrown off. _Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all_. “Mind taking this—” he’s going to say ‘argument,’ but somehow Geralt feels he is in enough trouble already— “conversation inside?” _Away from prying eyes_.

Yennefer steps back and allows Jaskier to pass. When it’s Geralt’s turn, she catches his arm. He lets himself be held in place. “A little warning would have been nice,” Yen murmurs, a chastising note in her voice. She releases his arm. “But I’ll forgive you because he’s interesting.” The witcher, unsure of what else to do, meets her eyes awkwardly and nods, then continues inside.

• ~ * ~ •

It’s unusual for Yennefer to remain in one place for so long, but she seems disinclined to move now. If he were less cautious about attachments, the witcher would say that the house is beginning to feel almost like a second Kaer Morhen. While he’s here, Geralt doesn’t need to worry about stocking up, where he’ll find work next, or if the weather’s bad. For a man who spends a good portion of the year on the road, this alone is strange. More unusual, he doesn’t have a _purpose_ for his visit— there is no problem to be solved.

Yen and Jaskier devise ways to spend time. Or rather, they come up with things to do which occasionally involve the witcher: communal meals, a proper tour of the building, one luncheon in the woods at the edge of Yen’s property. The fae also takes an interest in the library, which is not surprising; Jaskier has proven to be naturally curious. Apparently, he is highly-educated as well. Jaskier and Yennefer debate everything from history to alchemy, music—

“No, see, that’s where you’re wrong! With the right equipment, a skilled musician or bard can enchant an audience just as well as a ‘proper’ magic-user could. There have even been times when a musical performance has changed the course of history, just as you sorceresses have. Therefore music cannot be excluded from the arcane arts.”

“Only someone with a _severely_ deformed sense of self-importance would compare the supposed power of a- of a song to the actual harnessing of _chaos_ ,” Yennefer sneers.

Jaskier scowls and vehemently shakes his head. “No. Just… no.”

Other times, especially in the evenings, they gather in one of the less formal sitting rooms, fire crackling in the hearth, and just… do nothing. When he’d first met Yen, this had nearly driven Geralt mad. He hadn’t understood the _point_ of such inactivity. “If you’re lounging, you could be doing something useful,” is one of the most lasting of his instructors’ lessons— ‘lazy’ trainees were liable to be lashed until they found a useful activity. He’d never told Yen this, but she had divined it anyway.

“You don’t always need to be moving to be doing something useful, Geralt,” she had explained. “We are— Witchers, Sorceresses, Humans, Elves— all beings of two natures: the immaterial as well as the physical. Relaxing is important for the immaterial parts of yourself.” Now he’s grateful for that lesson, even if he still struggles with its application.

So instead of purely ‘relaxing,’ Geralt teaches Jaskier to play Gwent. He tries not to feel too charmed by the fae’s pouting when he loses (Geralt refuses to throw matches for a mere ego boost). Yen never plays, but sometimes she watches. Mostly she reads her book— but even then, nothing slips past her. Yet the witcher never notices her observing.

• ~ * ~ •

“What are your intentions towards Geralt?” Yennefer asks coolly.

The fae— _Jaskier_ , she reminds herself, _his name is Jaskier_ — looks up quickly, as if startled, and steps back from the shelf which he’s nearly pressed his nose to. They’re in her laboratory, alone, as Geralt wasn’t interested in a more in-depth tour. Yennefer had known that he wouldn’t be. And that is why she’d offered one to the fae. The witcher is, at times, charmingly direct. It’s a nice change of pace from what she’s used to.

Jaskier opens his mouth and pauses. He exhales slowly. _Almost like a Human man_ , she catches herself thinking. And it’s easy to forget, especially when he’s in his glamour, that Jaskier is an extraordinarily powerful being, one not of this sphere. A being who is quite probably older than she is, and perhaps even more powerful. This is an alarming thought and one she tries not to focus on too much. Her efforts are helped by the fae’s ability to mimic Human mannerisms. _Or perhaps that’s the Human blood in him_. Either way, for all his apparent ~~normalcy~~ harmlessness, despite Geralt’s clear approval, Yennefer cannot allow herself to forget Jaskier’s potential dangerousness.

Or rather, it’s _because_ of Geralt’s clear interest that she cannot forget these things. For all the witcher’s claims that he and his guild are above the ‘petty’ tribulations which Yennefer and her fellows involve themselves with, Geralt often seems to find himself embroiled in Human matters. This involvement frequently attracts trouble. Some of which Yennefer has had to help get him out of. So while the witcher claims neutrality, to be uncaring, he is the opposite of those things.

However, Geralt does slightly better on the attachment front— despite his age, the witcher has few close friends. But when he _does_ get attached, he clings to that person with everything he has. The proof of this? Their own first meeting. Geralt’s heart is a nigh-impenetrable fortress… except if someone’s been granted access to its front gate. In that case, he is terrifyingly, awfully, vulnerable.

It’s no longer her place to fiercely (jealously) guard that fortress, but Yennefer still feels responsible for Geralt’s heart in some ways. She is still his friend. She still cares for him, and therefore, is defensive _of_ him as well. Hence the rather convenient tour of her workspace. So that she can inquire whether or not the fae has been invited inside said fortress. _If he has been…_ she thinks, trailing off. Well, Geralt is certainly free to make his own choices. _But Gods protect that idiot if he’s entwined himself with one of the Fair Folk_.

It’s not that Yennefer is saying right now that Jaskier is evil, or has bad intentions, but rather that she doesn’t want to see Geralt be hurt. There has never been a fae sorcerer or sorceress. There has never been a fae graduate of Aretuza or Ban Ard either. This is because the Fair Folk— the Fay— do not need to be trained to use magic. They _are_ magic. Someone like that, even if they don’t mean to, could do irreparable damage to Geralt with little effort. So no, she isn’t _judging_ Jaskier, she doesn’t hate him, doesn’t particularly fear him either. Yennefer is merely… concerned. Therefore, she asks her question.

Jaskier huffs again, drawing her attention outwards. “Are you asking if I’m a threat to him? I thought we’d settled that—”

“No,” she interrupts forcefully. “What are your _intentions_?”

The fae, who professes to be both an excellent musician as well as a wordsmith, unsurprisingly picks up on her meaning. “Ah. Those kinds of intentions. Well, let me assure you, Yennefer, I have none.”

She glares suspiciously. “Really?”

“Truly, and sincerely. Geralt is just a friend.” Although Jaskier meets her gaze readily, blue eyes earnest, there is still a telling tension in his jaw, a subdued stiffness in his shoulders. Yennefer is good at reading people— she has to be— and so the sorceress carefully plies her skill on the man before her. _He’s lying_. Or at the very least, even if he doesn’t have plans per se, Jaskier doesn’t only consider Geralt to be a friend.

In that moment, Yennefer almost says, ‘That’s not what it looks like,’ but then she doesn’t. Even if there is _absolutely no way_ that what Jaskier feels for Geralt is entirely platonic. It’s as sure a thing as Tissaia’s fastidious orderliness irritating her students. _So it seems that non-Human males are just as capable of emotional stupidity as Human ones_. Perhaps she’ll have to make a study of it. “If you say so. But if that ever changes, and you hurt him—” she inhales calmly and meets Jaskier’s gaze, “I’ll know. Geralt would never ask it, but if you hurt him, I will hunt you down. And when I do, you’ll be sorry.” _No fury such as a witch scorned_ , Yennefer recalls the old saying. In this case, it’s true. She and Geralt are the same in their fierce protectiveness, at least of each other.

Jaskier blinks, jaw stiffening. There is tense silence between them.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says finally, letting out a breath. “I wouldn’t want to face the wrath of a sorceress like you.” At that moment, they both think of the enchanted necklace Geralt wears.

“Well then let’s hope it never comes to that,” Yennefer replies, smiling faintly. “Now come along, Geralt is sure to be bored out of his mind by now without us.”

• ~ * ~ •

Confronting Jaskier about his feelings is one thing, but it’s quite another to get Geralt to open up. As far as she can tell, the man hasn’t had a partner since their last— and final— parting over a decade ago. No, she doesn’t mean… dalliances, or single nights of passion, or whores, but something long-term. Like what they had (during the good moments). This realization makes her heart ache. For both of them. Yennefer is self-aware enough to realize that her own lack of companionship speaks volumes. After the ugliness between Istredd and Geralt, she truly has no one. But at least she acknowledges it, and can talk about her feelings, much as she’s disinclined to.

 _You’re overthinking things_ , the sorceress chastises herself. _This is **Geralt**. Bluntness will do just fine_.

• ~ * ~ •

This time, it’s Jaskier who she needs to get away from. As he’s been avoiding her since their conversation in the lab, Yen focuses on drawing Geralt away from his fae friend. It’s a more difficult task than it should be, somewhat amusingly, somewhat concerningly. But finally, the sorceress manages it with the promise that she’ll show the witcher a place where several varieties of rare alchemical plants grow. As Roach _also_ happens to need to stretch her legs, it’s an offer that is too good to refuse. Conveniently, Jaskier says that he’s staying behind to work on a new ballad. About _Geralt_. Whom the fae-bard has dubbed, ‘The White Wolf’ of all things. Though Yennefer supposes it _is_ better than ‘The Butcher of Blaviken.’

“Come, Wolf. Let’s go riding,” she says, spurring her horse into action. Behind her, Geralt sighs, and the sorceress doesn’t bother to hide the way her shoulders shake as she laughs at him.

• ~ * ~ •

After they reach their destination— a clearing at the edge of the woods— and tie the horses up, Yen shows the witcher where to find the plants. At the moment, she doesn’t need any, but the sorceress is never opposed to making coin; she can sell the plants to those who _do_ require them. Geralt, as he’s wont to do, is quiet and singularly focused on sniffing out plants. When he’s got a bundle, Yen lays a hand on his forearm— not armored for once. She’s not sure if she has herself to thank for this or Jaskier. It’s… a confusing thought, so she sets it aside. “Why don’t we sit for a bit? It’s nice here.”

For a moment, Geralt glances apprehensively at her, then shrugs. “If you want.” Despite everything, Yen smiles. He’s always been good at dealing with her mercurial moods.

• ~ * ~ •

When Yennefer stops his plant gathering, Geralt isn’t suspicious. The witcher knows that he can become… overly focused on tasks, sometimes. Doing basic chores— skinning a rabbit, gathering wood, brushing down Roach— they are all _easy_. Doing them is akin to meditation. He doesn’t have to think, just act, so more often than not, Geralt does. But he _is_ suspicious when Yen suggests that they sit down and enjoy the view. He’s seen plenty of nature— the witcher _lives_ outdoors most of the year— so while this is a nice spot, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Hence his suspicion.

They sit in silence for several minutes. Geralt inhales, smelling Yen’s perfume, the old tang of deer, the sweet scent of wildflowers, listens to the faint rustle of fresh, green leaves, pine needles, sees the crisp blueness of the sky. Before he met Jaskier, the witcher would have noticed that clear blueness. Now… not so much. It’s nothing like the fae’s eyes. Yen makes a low sound beside him— not quite a ‘hmm’ but nearly— and sits up. He almost feels embarrassed, and panics for a moment that she might have accidentally read that off him. Then Geralt frowns faintly. _Why would that matter?_

“Geralt,” the sorceress says softly, to grab his attention. He looks over.

“Why’d you bring me out here, Yen?”

“To gather ingredients—” with a glare from the witcher, Yennefer cuts herself off, smirking fondly.

Geralt groans internally. He’s never understood the point of word games. _Perhaps Jaskier can explain the appeal to me_. “Really. Why are we here?”

“It’s about Jaskier.”

He feels something cold churning in his gut. “Again, I’m sorry I didn’t warn you—”

Yen huffs, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking vaguely irritated. “No, it’s not that, Witcher. I brought you out here to talk about Jaskier. And you.”

He blinks. “Jaskier and I. What’s there to talk about?”

“Oh Gods above,” Yen mutters, looking absolutely disgusted for a moment. “Your relationship to each other, Geralt! You and he seem awfully close, considering how you met.”

The witcher arches a brow. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost say that Yennefer is jealous. Only no, that’s not it. And something in his gut is telling him this is not a conversational path he wants to go down. Perhaps it’s the word ‘relationship’ that alarms him. “We’re… friends. I misjudged him, Yen. I was wrong.”

Yen inclines her head, but the irritation— the ‘you’re _missing_ something, you idiot’ look— doesn’t quite fade from her eyes. “I may have too. He seems— and if you repeat this to him, I will retaliate, somehow— nice. But that’s not the point. Do you have feelings for him, Geralt?”

He blinks. _What?_ “Feelings.”

“Yes, _feelings_. For Jaskier. Your fae friend.”

The witcher stills under that insistent violet gaze. It feels as if he’s taken a rather strong blow to the head, the way his mind seems to loop over itself. He feels rather ridiculously like curling up or bolting. “I—” _I thought it was **fondness**_. Fuck, it’s been so long since he ~~was in love~~ liked someone. _The last person was Yennefer_. Geralt hasn’t forgotten the feeling, of course not. It’s like a warm punch to the gut. Or the buzzing thrill of finally finishing a difficult hunt. The calmness of riding Roach down a flat, empty stretch of road at dawn in mid-summer.

No, Geralt hasn’t forgotten the feeling, but with Jaskier— it’s different. It’s the flash of lightning on a dark, wet night. The breath curling out of his mouth as he stands in the tallest, crumbling tower of Kaer Morhen on a clear winter day. It’s the small ember that catches the fire alight. It’s a warmth in his gut, a loud and genuine laugh. But looking back, no, it’s not surprising. _I think I’ve felt this way for a while now_ , Geralt thinks, recalling the night they’d spent drinking by the fire. How warm he’d felt, watching Jaskier eat the strawberries. How floored he’d been, how off-balance, when the fae had called him a hero back in Velen.

But after the final time with Yen, well. _That’s it_ , he remembers thinking almost numbly. For no one could be as lucky to land someone like Yennefer twice in their lifetime, no matter how long that was. No one like _him_ especially. So Geralt had… set aside his love. Made himself focus on more practical things. Happy endings aren’t for witchers. Happy endings aren’t for mutants, monster-killers, man-slayers. They’re for children snug in their beds, listening to tales. Because only storybooks have perfectly happy endings— the brooch attached to his steel sword is one reminder of this. _Expect the unexpected_ , he thinks grimly. _Always expect the unexpected_. He hadn’t been looking for love, so of course…

“You- you _do_ like him,” Yennefer says, flabbergasted.

Of course it had been able to grow, like a weed, and spread unchecked. _Fuck_. Geralt swallows. Then the sorceress’s words hit him. “Yen!” he hisses, feeling more flustered than perhaps he’s ever felt before. But all other words die on the witcher’s tongue. There is no denying he feels something.

She fixes him with a look, violet gaze too-knowing. Not quite pitying, but sympathetic. “I thought so.” Yen pats his shoulder, then gets to her feet, and offers him a hand up. Geralt ignores the gesture and stands. They stay there for a moment, just looking at one another. “Do you want him?” the sorceress asks suddenly.

He almost flinches. “I- I don’t know.” Yes, obviously, there’s attraction. But something long-term? That’s a different matter. Far more complicated. Far more dangerous— for him and Jaskier both. The witcher recalls, suddenly, the scar on the fae’s neck, which _he_ had given him. Jaskier’s drunken confession about his mixed-heritage, his duty to kill Geralt.

Then there are the other Wolves to consider. Vesemir… he nearly shudders, already feeling an echo of guilt and shame at imagining the elder witcher’s reaction to learning that his son is paired with a fae— _I haven’t told them. I haven’t told them **anything**_ — Eskel’s hurt face, or Lambert’s loud anger. They don’t even know that he’s met a member of the Fair Folk. Then there’s the fact that someone may still be coming for him. And if that fae finds Jaskier, already a near outsider, attached to him…

Yes, Geralt wants Jaskier. But at what cost?

• ~ * ~ •

The ride back is quiet. Yennefer is obviously allowing him time to think, but the witcher doesn’t mind. As soon as they’re past the gate, the front door is wrenched open. “Geralt!” Jaskier calls cheerfully, lute bouncing slightly on his back as he bounds out the door and stops just before Roach. “Yennefer. How was your expedition?”

“Fine.” Geralt swallows, feeling dazzled and warmed through by Jaskier’s expectant expression, his small, open smile. “Got everything I needed.” _And then some_.

• ~ * ~ •

After that, Geralt can’t help but look at Jaskier sometimes. In the quiet moments, when he’s talking (arguing) with Yennefer, or as he’s studying his cards when they play Gwent. In short, the witcher watches Jaskier when he knows that the fae won’t be looking back. And while he does, Geralt carefully takes inventory of his feelings, as if they’re items in his potions bag potentially in need of replacing. The first time Jaskier wins a Gwent game, he cheers, and looks over at Geralt, sitting across the coffee table, with eyes of blue fire. His heart lurches, and the witcher finds himself smiling softly at the other man, not even bothered by the loss— he could lose and lose and lose to Jaskier if he’d just keep smiling like that. “Well done.”

Yen, who’s been pretending to read on the couch, glances up from her book with amusement and meets his gaze, then looks to the fae. “Now that you’re not a complete loser, how’d you like to play me?” Jaskier looks to the witcher, and Geralt shrugs, already standing. This should be interesting because Yen isn’t really a Gwent fan, and so only has a little more skill than Jaskier. He takes a seat on the couch behind the fae, ready to guide him if need be, and watches.

The warm feeling in his chest doesn’t dissipate, especially as Jaskier leans close to whisper questions in Geralt’s ear.

• ~ * ~ •

They spend a few more days with Yen after their discussion and fuck if Geralt knows how he’s going to deal with his feelings now. It’d have been better if the sorceress hadn’t made him realize he had them in the first place, but that’s not an _option_ anymore. Geralt is self-aware enough— despite what everyone else claims— that he realizes it was only a matter of time until he connected the dots. And those dots aren’t exactly going to go away. But there are other matters to consider.

Geralt isn’t sure if this will be a once-and-done thing or not. Neither does he know whether Jaskier is interested to begin with. It took them so long just to get here, and no small part of that is his fault. Even if he didn’t feel the way he does about the fae, Geralt would be deeply hurt to lose his companionship. A quick fuck isn’t worth that. Neither, as evidenced by several of his past verbal fumbles, is Geralt very good with words. If he is going to— express his interest to Jaskier, it will need to be done carefully, and with forethought. So the witcher goes back to studying the fae and begins thinking about where his decision lands on the scale of desire and practicality.

• ~ * ~ •

Sometimes, the witcher catches Jaskier watching him _back_. If the fae sees that Geralt sees him watching, he grins, slightly abashedly, but with a vaguely unnerving sharpness— almost like hunger. In these moments, Geralt’s brain instinctually shudders, and his heart flutters rapidly. But it does so for an entirely different reason than fear. In these moments, the witcher is always the first one to look away. They don’t talk about it, and he never catches the slightly disappointed look on Jaskier’s face when this happens.

• ~ * ~ •

The night is warm, the fire is hot, and their stomachs are full with some of the fresh rations Yennefer has given them— biscuits, carrots— along with the rabbit Geralt had caught earlier. Jaskier is leaning against his folded up bed roll, strumming absently, humming, and then scribbling in his notebook. The witcher contents himself with watching the other man’s creative process take place; Geralt sometimes has to literally shout at Jaskier to grab his attention while he’s composing. There should be little danger of any of their awkward eye-meetings. For once, it seems that there’s something the bard doesn’t want to talk about.

So Geralt watches, eyes catching the warm tones of the fire, their affection rendering them a molten gold. Jaskier— if he notices anything— doesn’t pay it any mind. Then the bard sighs and sets down his notebook with a frown. Geralt jerks his gaze away, reaching for another log to toss upon the fire. He settles back down, fairly confident that the other man noticed nothing.

A few moments later, however, this hope is woefully disproven. Geralt realizes that it’s still silent. Jaskier has stopped strumming his lute, and is looking carefully across the fire at him. His head’s tilted slightly, and the witcher has a very funny feeling about this. His stomach swoops aggressively and Geralt has to stop his instinctual desire to avert his gaze. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

He blinks, feeling as if a bucket of ice-cold water has been upended over his head. “Pardon?”

Jaskier sets aside the lute, and the air shimmers subtly. Then the fae is in his natural form. He fixes Geralt with an unreadable, but fond, look. “You’re not subtle, Geralt. _At all_. I cannot help but notice the way you look at me.”

His mind goes blank, and it feels as if someone has force-fed him stones, the way his stomach drops. “I—” Jaskier is suddenly crouching before him, grinning. The witcher listens to his heart thump loudly inside his chest. Distantly, Geralt hears himself say, softly, uncertainly, “I don’t know if this is a good idea.” _There are so many things which could go wrong, and I don’t—_

Surprisingly, Jaskier doesn’t look upset by the proclamation. “We can take it slow.” He cups Geralt’s face in one cool hand.

Treacherously, he feels a rush of relief, and the uncertainty is replaced by a little voice saying, _That doesn’t sound too bad_. If it doesn’t work out, this will give them the chance to stay friends. He managed it with Yen, somehow— and they were the exact opposite of slow. Jaskier’s thumb, rubbing slow circles on his cheek, is very distracting. As is his heated, lazy smile. “Slow sounds… alright.”

The fae leans forward so that his lips hover over Geralt’s. His breath ghosts hotly across the witcher’s skin. Geralt’s heart is tripping over itself. “Would I be moving things along too quickly if I kissed you now?”

“No.”

Jaskier’s mouth tastes of sweetness, sunshine, magic, and promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Yennefer holding Geralt and Jaskier together like dolls* “Now kiss, you fucking idiots!”


	10. Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though they’re moving slowly, Geralt finds (some valid) reasons to worry. But he and Jaskier don’t get a chance to talk about this yet, because they’ve got bigger problems to face. 
> 
> In other words, the witcher and fae’s actions finally catch up with them.

Geralt likes kissing Jaskier. Adores it, in fact. One of the more enjoyable aspects of their newfound intimacy is the fae’s boldness; occasionally he’ll get a _hungry_ look, one which sets off something similar in the witcher, but now they don’t suppress their urges. If they’re not in danger, Jaskier will indulge himself in as many kisses as either of them can handle. In the evening after dinner has been eaten, Roach cared for, and the bed rolls unrolled, Jaskier sits with the witcher and kisses him into a near-stupor. Sometimes he has to break it off because things get… uncomfortable.

Yes, Geralt likes kissing Jaskier, but he also wants _more_.

After their first kiss and subsequent agreement that they’ll take things slow, Geralt is terrified that Jaskier will regret his decision. That the fae will give him an ultimatum. Or worse, that he’ll profess his unhappiness to Geralt, ask something of him which the witcher cannot give (at least not yet). He wants more too and so if Jaskier asked it of him, it would be _very_ difficult for Geralt to refuse. Even if it’s vital that he does, at least until after they’re positive no one’s coming for him, and the witcher figures out how (or if) he’s going to tell his family.

But for now, the fae seems happy— or at least conceals his discontent well enough that he’s left clueless about it. And that’s good; it’s often incredibly hard to remember why he decided that they can’t have more at this very moment. _You haven’t told Vesemir, Eskel, or Lambert. There’s also the possible price on your head_ , Geralt reminds himself continuously. Another concern, one which he hadn’t thought much of before they started this is: _Jaskier is immortal (or close enough) and you’re not_.

Even if Geralt’s life were not quite so violent, his prospects so uncertain, Jaskier would likely still outlive him— Human heritage or no. That’s before Geralt factors in the possibility that he’ll die early; on a hunt, or murdered by some witcher-hating pitchfork-and-torch-wielding mob of townsfolk or mercenaries, either is likely. He’s never been overly concerned by the possibility of dying, but the witcher knows that Jaskier is. Has _always_ been, in fact; one of the very first things he did after meeting Geralt was heal him. So it doesn’t seem fair to capture the fae’s heart only for Jaskier to lose him a few centuries later. While he’s lived a shorter time than the fae has, Geralt still knows what it’s like to lose people and then carry their memories. The load is heavy.

Geralt doesn’t _know_ how to even begin that sort of conversation. He’s had affairs and dalliances before with people whose life expectancy is different than his, sure, but that has never been a concern with any of his long-term partners. They’ve all been sorceresses or other magic-users of some kind. So someone dying (naturally) before the other person never came up. Besides, that is hardly a kissing-only kind of conversation. It’s something you talk about when you and your partner have committed… which leads him back to square one.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Something which does help slow things down is how eager Jaskier seems to be to share information about himself. Whatever barriers or hang-ups kept the fae from sharing anything and everything about his past with Geralt before are gone now. He’s turned into a font of information, and Geralt gladly soaks it all up, fascinated and honored by the chance to learn more about Jaskier.

It’s a warm night, so they’ve allowed the fire to die down. Geralt has undone the strings on his shirt, and Jaskier reclines against him, head pressed against the witcher’s bare chest. His hair— soft and vaguely floral-scented— is a delight to his senses. The Summer Solstice is in a few days, and that, for some reason, makes him think about the fae’s distaste for his home-sphere. Apparently, his distraction is noticeable, for Jaskier shifts slightly, and asks, “Geralt? What’re you thinking about? You’re being awfully quiet.”

“Family,” he replies bluntly. “I remember you saying how you… dislike returning to Court, and was wondering—” Jaskier’s expression darkens, so the witcher cuts himself off. When he shifts away, Geralt’s heart falls. He worries that he’s gone too far, pushed too much. But the fae settles back down, this time sitting a few inches away from him, so he can better look Geralt in the eyes. The lack of contact still feels like a blow.

“I do have family, and you’re right that they’re part of the reason why returning to Court is so unpleasant.” Jaskier sighs, grimacing momentarily. His eyes are distant and sad. “My parents are both still alive, although our relationship is— strained. My father passed his title on to me early so that he could claim a higher position in the court itself. My mother, well, she went with him.” _Chose him over me_ , Geralt amends mentally.

His frown deepens. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier sighs again. “Don’t be. I’m used to it. And really, I don’t hate either of them, just their choices. And in some ways, they’re not to blame. You wouldn’t think the small amount more of Human blood that my father has would make a difference, but it does. He also grew up watching my grandfather suffer for his heritage; it took a huge legal battle to retain the family’s land and titles. So my father chose… a different path. He’s a very conventional man, and that alone was bound to cause problems between us eventually. But when I showed an interest in this sphere, in Humanity—” the fae cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily. “ _That_ caused a lot of problems.”

Geralt is alarmed by the sadness radiating off his companion, so he scoots closer and hesitantly touches Jaskier’s shoulder. He smiles and rests his head against the witcher’s chest once more. The warm spark that causes in his heart also ignites a type of bravery which he’s never had before. “I never knew my father— well, my natural father. I’ve always had Vesemir. But my mother—” This time, the witcher is the one to close his eyes and grimace. “You’re not the only one who’s… unconventional. My mother is a sorceress.”

Jaskier’s eyes are slightly wide, and his eyebrows rise. “ _Is_ a sorceress?”

He laughs. “Visenna. We met once, years ago. She saved my life— I’d been bitten by a Necrophage, and the wound got infected…” the witcher trails off, caught in his memories for a moment. Then he smiles coldly. “My mother chose conventionality too, in the end. I asked her why she’d left me, and—” Geralt huffs. “She said that it didn’t matter now, that we’d both be left unhappy if we talked about the past. And she was gone by morning. Haven’t seen her since.” _And I’m not sure I want to._

There’s a beat of depressed silence, and then, surprisingly, Jaskier laughs. “What do you know? It seems that familial problems are universal.”

The witcher blinks, surprised by the smile which spreads over his face at those words. “Guess they are.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Trouble catches up to them eventually and despite his better instincts, a part of Geralt feels outraged when it does. He’s been living with the knowledge that there _could be_ a Fay threat against his life for so long that it’s astounding when it actualizes. Even witchers can become complacent, and it seems that’s what’s happened to him. _Never accept a contract with consequences you aren’t willing to face, boy_ , he recalls Vesemir lecturing.

“But what if the person really, really needs help?” he’d asked stubbornly.

The older witcher’s jaw had twitched, even as his eyes softened. Slightly. “In that case, for their sake— as well as your conscience’s— they had better have enough coin to account for the increased risk.”

Geralt grimaces. _You were right, Vesemir. But I still don’t regret it_.

**• ~ * ~ •**

He isn’t actually there for the start of the incident.

Jaskier had gone off to bathe, being much less tolerant of all manner of grime than Geralt is. The witcher stays behind to sharpen his swords and polish his armor. The weather is nice especially for mid-summer— not too hot, muggy, or buggy. The place they’ve settled in temporarily is full of rich grass for Roach to munch on, and the surrounding forest bountiful and beast-free; they’d had quail for lunch, and the meal now sits pleasant and heavy in his stomach. In fact, Geralt is contemplating doing some exercises to keep himself from dozing off when a loud, alarmed yelp has him leaping from his seat, grabbing his silver sword and potions bag.

He’d know that voice anywhere; it’s Jaskier’s.

Not minding the many twigs and branches which slap him, the witcher races through the trees down to the riverbed, terrified that something has already harmed the bard— for Jaskier to yell like that, the monster has to be particularly fearsome. He’s usually able to defend himself easily. However, there is no beast, dismembered body parts, or even blood. Yet there _is_ a monster.

The strange man looks enough like an ordinary Human that Geralt would have written him off as such if his medallion weren’t vibrating so wildly. Additionally, there’s the fact that Jaskier has dropped his glamor, revealing the fae’s fiercely sharp teeth as he bares them at the intruder. Geralt skids to a halt, and quickly ducks behind a tree. Somehow, neither party has noticed him yet, and the witcher is disinclined to change that.

If this turns out to be a private matter, he’ll apologize later for the intrusion. If not, he’ll be ready to act. Or as ready as he can be. Geralt remembers, from what seems like ages ago, how poorly he’d performed against Jaskier in their fight, and he hadn’t even been truly antagonistic then. It’ll be better to wait and see what the outcome of this confrontation is before he does something rash.

“ _Valdo_ ,” Jaskier spits, forcing Geralt to tune back into what’s happening before him.

The other fae— Valdo, apparently— doesn’t seem phased by Jaskier’s dripping, bare form. His companion’s nudity would be thoroughly distracting at another time, but the witcher is too concerned by the threatening aura radiating from Valdo to pay much attention to it. Jaskier snaps his fingers irritably and is suddenly dry, and dressed. He does not, however, put his glamour on.

“Julian,” the newcomer says silkily, stepping forward. Geralt is momentarily confused, but then he realizes: _That must be another of Jaskier’s names_. He forces his attention back to the tense scene before him. Jaskier doesn’t move, although his fists do clench briefly, and his scowl deepens. “You’ve been gone from Court for quite a while now. We’ve been getting worried. Thought something might’ve gotten you.”

“Really? Unless you know something that I do not, there’s no reason to be concerned, Valdo; as you very well know, I only return for Solstice. And as you can see, I’m fine,” Jaskier replies calmly, giving nothing away.

Valdo laughs, and the sound sends rivulets of cold down Geralt’s spine, makes his ears ring for a second. That laugh— it’s unnerving. The witcher’s stomach sinks a little bit as he realizes that this is one fight he is incapable of winning. His fae is on his own. He hopes that Jaskier has enough sense, or ability to smooth talk, to get himself out of this mess.

“Are you though, really?” Valdo asks, marching forward. There wasn’t much space between the two of them to begin with, but Jaskier doesn’t move until Valdo grabs him by the collar. Then he flinches, and that is enough to move the fabric… revealing Jaskier’s scar. After that, Jaskier pushes the other fae back with enough force that he stumbles. But Valdo doesn’t seem upset by this. While Geralt can’t see Valdo’s face, he wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a smirk on it.

“Fine, you said,” Valdo comments smoothly. “I suppose you just had a little accident then, Julian? You’ve always been rather clumsy; I suspect it’s the Human in you— can’t be helped.”

At the derogatory comment, Jaskier’s eyes light with fury and he hisses. Despite himself, Geralt freezes, and it takes a moment to calm his racing heart. “And you have always been second fiddle in the music department, so I suppose blood alone can’t account for all our faults.” The fae smirks after his rebuke, and an unfamiliar coldness burns in Jaskier’s eyes.

Valdo freezes momentarily, and his fists clench. The witcher leans forward, every muscle taut, ready to attack if necessary. But after a terrifying beat of silence, the menacing fae laughs. “Now _that_ is a comeback if ever I’ve heard one… Speaking of hearing things—” Valdo’s tone drops, slowing to one of devastating emphasis, “I’ve done a little asking around and have heard a rumor about a rather peculiar white-haired witcher, who swapped back _my_ Changeling for its Human counterpart. Now just how would a witcher learn the ritual without the assistance of one of our own, I wonder. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you, Julian?”

Although he swallows nervously and hesitates for a second, Jaskier otherwise maintains his calm demeanor. “No,” he lies, “I wouldn’t. Seems like a proper mystery you’ve got there, Valdo. I wish you luck in solving it.”

Valdo sneers, and marches forward again, pointing a finger in right in Jaskier’s face. “Now listen here, you pathetic excuse for a fae! I _know_ you’re involved somehow— there were clear traces of _your_ magic all over the site when I went to investigate, and who else but a witcher could leave such a mark on a fae’s neck, even if it’s yours?”

There is utter silence after Valdo’s words— his terrifyingly _accurate_ words— save for the somewhat distant babbling of the river, and a solitary bird’s song. Geralt holds his breath unconsciously as he waits to hear how Jaskier responds. If it’ll be enough to dissuade Valdo from pursuing this further. He doesn’t think it will be. Clearly there’s a history between the Fay, one which has lasted for a long time. _Shit_.

“Listen here, Valdo,” Jaskier spits, stabbing his own finger into the other fae’s chest. “I don’t know what you’re on about, because I had nothing to do with that Changeling incident. Sure, maybe I _was_ there, and maybe I did use my magic, but that alone is no crime. You’ve got nothing substantial on me, so you’d be better off dropping it, and going back to your regular harassment. I doubt anyone at Court would believe your claims anyway.”

Valdo’s fists clench again, but after a deep exhalation, they slowly relax. He chuckles. “True, I’ve got no definitive proof that you were involved in stealing my Changeling yet, but the Court, and dare I say, the Queen herself, will be highly interested to hear the story of how you received that scar on your neck, Julian, and from whom. And when I do tell them, _they’ll_ be able to uncover proof of your involvement.”

Jaskier’s jaw tenses and he nearly spits, “Or, since I didn’t do anything, the Court will clear my name, and you—”

“I think not,” Valdo interrupts. “We’re both very well aware of the rules around honor-killing, after all. It is a _crime_ to spare one who injures us. So even if I cannot punish you, at least your pet witcher will be.”

Jaskier seethes. “Geralt did nothing, Valdo, so leave him out of—” the fae cuts himself off abruptly, blanching. _Oh no_ , Geralt thinks, feeling nauseous as he realizes what Jaskier has done. The fae opens his mouth to say something else, probably to distract Valdo, but it’s too late.

“Geralt. That’d be the witcher, correct?”

“No—”

“I must say, even for you this level of depravity is… unexpected. See you at Court, Julian.” With that statement, Valdo disappears.

Geralt, muscles screaming from his prolonged crouching, sags against the tree. _Fuck_. Distantly, he hears a twig snap beneath his foot. Jaskier jumps, whirling about wildly before his eyes find the witcher’s through the branches. “Oh, fuck, Geralt! I- I’m so sorry! Don’t you worry, I’ll make this right somehow, I’ll protect you. Valdo’s not really nobility, he’s the bastard son of a lord, so by the time he’s able to get an audience with the Queen, I’m sure—”

“Jaskier,” the witcher interrupts, getting to his feet slowly and stepping free of the branches. That one word, the fae’s name, is enough to quell his stammering, nervous speech. Their eyes meet, and Jaskier makes no effort to hide his terrified anxiety. _I appreciate that_ , Geralt thinks distantly, through an internal tremor of panic, _I appreciate the fact that he’s not bothering to hide how well and truly fucked we both are_.

It seems that chickens do come home to roost after all.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“Tell me who Valdo is,” Geralt says once they’ve packed up camp and are on the road again. Even though they’re in the mountains and no one else is around, Jaskier insists on riding with him and keeps his arms wrapped protectively around the witcher. He also notices that the fae is unglamoured, both from how Jaskier’s long nails dig slightly into his leather armor and from his medallion’s constant trembling. Yen’s necklace is tucked into his pocket, ready to be taken out at a moment’s notice.

Jaskier sighs quietly. “As I said earlier, he’s a bastard— in both meanings of the word. We’ve been rivals since childhood, although it wasn’t serious until he stole my music and performed it at the Solstice celebration the year we both came of age. After that, well—”

“What’s his plan? You mentioned something about returning to Court, so maybe I could come with you and—”

“ _Absolutely not!_ ” The fae’s grip suddenly tightens, and Geralt grunts. The hold loosens. Jaskier sighs. “No, that’s a nice thought, Geralt, but I don’t want you anywhere near them. They’re a bunch of vipers. What we should do instead is inform Yennefer, and your fellow witchers—”

This time, it’s he who reacts. “They don’t even know that I _met_ you! I don’t want them getting hurt. This is too dangerous.” Geralt nearly shudders, picturing _Vesemir_ facing the Fay. Lambert, being choked to death by vines. Or Eskel—

“Alright, alright. We won’t tell them,” Jaskier agrees soothingly, bringing a hand up to squeeze his upper arm. “But can we tell Yennefer at least?”

Geralt exhales shakily, feeling himself relax. The situation’s still dire, but at least none of the other Wolves will be ~~killed~~ hurt because of him. At least his family will be safe. No matter what happens to Geralt personally. “Yes, we can tell Yen.” If worst comes to worst, the sorceress can portal herself— _and_ Jaskier— away from danger.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Several days have passed since Valdo Marx tracked down Jaskier— whose birth name is _Julian Alfred Pankratz_ apparently. Despite the situation, Geralt takes a moment to snort at that. Nobles. Naming their children prissy things even if they’re not Human.

Aside from his brief amusement at Jaskier’s frankly ridiculous name, the witcher spends most of his time worrying, and picking the fae’s brain so that he can understand their situation more clearly. From the way Jaskier sticks close by, going so far as to keep watch next to Geralt’s bed roll at night, the fae is worried too. This makes him remember his earlier concerns about making sure they moved slow.

 _How naive_ , the witcher thinks self-pityingly, _that I imagined anything this good would last long_.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“You should leave,” Geralt tells Jaskier matter-of-factly one afternoon a week later. He’s been thinking it over, and recently come to the conclusion that: “It’s not safe for you here, Jaskier. And I—” _couldn’t stand to see you hurt unnecessarily. Because of me. Especially since I’m probably doomed already_. “You should go.”

He hates it. The words taste like ash, like the bitterest poison, on his tongue, but that doesn’t stop them from being true. Jaskier is already on the outs with the Court, but he doesn’t have to make it _worse_. Yes, there’s Valdo Marx, but from Geralt’s understanding, Marx isn’t powerful enough to hurt Jaskier. At least not yet. But if Jaskier insists on protecting him, that might just be the push the Court needs to do something about the oft-troublesome Viscount. By attaching himself to Geralt’s sinking ship, Jaskier may be acting virtuously, but it’ll ultimately be a pyrrhic victory.

He doesn’t want that. Better they sever this connection now before they become more entangled. It’s already bad enough, and Jaskier’s grown on his heart like fucking ivy. But it could be far more terrible if they wait. The fae’s protectiveness is evidence of that. If he stays any longer, losing Geralt will only hurt more. The witcher blinks, realizing that it’s dead silent.

Jaskier has stopped in the middle of the road a few paces back. When he sees Geralt looking, the fae disappears, placing himself in front of Roach, arms on his hips, one brow raised. He looks furious. “Whatever do you mean, Geralt?” Jaskier asks menacingly. Roach shuffles back a step. The witcher places a soothing hand on her head and the mare stills.

“I feel like we should… not do _this_ anymore,” Geralt says slowly. The fae blinks. Then he narrows his eyes, and the tips of his pointed teeth bite into his lips. His hands dig white-knuckled into the fabric of his shirt. “Jaskier—”

“Get off the horse, Geralt. We are having this conversation. Right now.”

Geralt dismounts.

**• ~ * ~ •**

He is genuinely nervous as Jaskier leads them off the road and into a clearing. It’s a pretty place, but all Geralt can pay attention to is the way the fae stomps through the tall grass, not even looking back to ensure that he’s following. When they’re in the middle, Jaskier finally stops. “ _Sit_.” Alarmingly, Geralt finds his legs complying without a conscious decision.

Ordinarily, he’d be furious at the breach of his personal boundaries, but the fae isn’t even looking at him, doesn’t seem to notice that he’s used magic on the witcher. Instead, Jaskier is pacing back and forth, brow furrowed. Occasionally, he stops moving, pinches his nose, and sighs. Geralt frowns. “Jaskier?”

The fae abruptly looks up, eyes widening when he sees the witcher. “Oh! Did I— I’m so sorry, Geralt. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he reassures calmly.

Silence falls as Jaskier strides over and takes a seat. He waves a hand and suddenly, the witcher’s legs are released. Geralt awkwardly stretches them out, settling into a more comfortable position. Then the fae sighs, and his blue eyes are full of worry, as well as weariness. _When is the last time he slept?_ With some alarm, the witcher realizes that he doesn’t know. How long can Fay go without sleep?

“So, not to be dramatic or anything, but. I believe you were breaking up with me?” Jaskier asks, completely dramatically.

Geralt bites down on a laugh, because he does have _some_ tact, and nods. “I was.”

“Mind telling me why?”

“I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

Jaskier blinks, looking stung for a moment. He blows out a breath. “Alright. That’s— that’s valid. If it’s _really_ what you want. But. I cannot help but think that your decision might be motivated by our current situation. And if that’s the case, then I am absolutely not leaving. You’ll not sacrifice yourself on my behalf, Geralt. So tell me, honestly, do you want to end our… relationship?”

Geralt blinks, feeling his skin prickle in discomfort under the fae’s careful attention. He swallows. “I—” _Gods damn it_. “Fuck. No, I don’t want to break up with you, Jaskier. I just don’t want you hurt.” The witcher closes his eyes, feeling vulnerable at the confession. This is why he doesn’t get attached. It hurts too much. He always fucks things up, and—

A soft touch causes Geralt to open his eyes. Jaskier gently pushes a strand of his hair back. His eyes are soft, and he smiles gently at the witcher. “It’s alright. And I don’t want to see you hurt either, Geralt. So let’s protect each other, okay?”

“Okay.”

The fae smiles again. Then his expression turns somewhat serious. “Just to clarify: we don’t actually have to stop kissing or anything, right? I might be upset if we do.”

He snorts. “No, we don’t.” _I couldn’t stop kissing you now. Not for anything. Not for anyone_.

Jaskier sighs, clearly relieved. “Thank all your gods.” He gets to his feet and holds a hand out to the witcher. “Ready to get going?”

“Yeah.” Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and pulls himself up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵Dun dun duh...🎵 The plot thickens!


	11. Summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trouble trio are reunited and head towards Yennefer’s old haunts: Aretuza. More specifically, they’re going to the sorceress’ second home located in the city of Gors Velen, by the school. Geralt angsts and worries, Jaskier and Yen are overprotective. Everyone fears what the future will bring. Especially once the fae receives a special letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a nod to the books here— the scene I allude to is one of my favorites.

As soon as he agrees to involve Yen— well, involve her _further_ — in this mess, Geralt knows that things will be more complicated. For some reason, everyone he’s close with seems to worry about his ability to defend himself. Oh, they all know that the witcher is more than competent, but that doesn’t stop them from questioning his tactical decisions or showing their doubt in other ways. Such as what Jaskier is currently doing.

The fae frowns deeply at him. “Are you _sure_ you’ll be alright? I mean it might be a _bit_ difficult, but I could bring you with—”

He snorts. Yes, Jaskier, Yen, Eskel, Vesemir, and even Lambert all mean well when they express their concern for his safety, but that never makes it any less annoying. It’s not like he hasn’t survived close-calls before or anything. But Geralt sets aside his vexation because in this case, Jaskier has _some_ right to be worried for him. “I’ll be fine, Jaskier. I’ve got Yen’s necklace, plenty of salt, as well as my iron _and_ silver swords. If it helps, I’ll even promise to keep both eyes out for trouble. As you said yourself, Valdo’s unlikely to act without the Court’s permission. Go.”

Jaskier nods hesitantly then strides forward and pulls him into a brief kiss. He pats Geralt’s pants pocket, where Yen’s necklace sits waiting, and says, “I’ll be back soon. Stay safe, Witcher.”

Pushing aside the brief pang of alarm he feels at the fae’s impending absence, Geralt nods. “You too, Jaskier.” He bites back anything else he wants to say. The fae smiles once more and steps back. He vanishes. The witcher swiftly pulls his enchanted necklace out and slides it over his neck. The vaguely purple haze feels more comforting than it perhaps ought to.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Two days later, he is startled awake by a loud _pop_ as a portal appears. Yennefer steps through it. Seconds later, Jaskier appears behind her. Geralt smiles despite himself and walks forward to greet them. He stretches, and rubs at his disheveled hair; it’s been a _long_ two days— he hasn’t slept much. Apparently, he’s forgotten how unsettling it is to sleep out in the open without someone else to watch his back. “Hello, Yen. Jaskier.”

Jaskier steps around Yen, already holding his arms open for an embrace— either he doesn’t care if Yen knows about the… changes in their relationship or perhaps they’ve already discussed them— but he’s rebuffed by a shimmering wall of purple. The fae stumbles back and would have fallen, except that Yennefer catches him neatly by the elbow, frowning sharply. As soon as he’s steady on his feet, she shoves Jaskier away with the sharp order: “Careful!”

Geralt awkwardly goes to take the necklace off, but a chorus of “No!” stops him.

Yen is now glaring at him, and Jaskier frowning, brow furrowed with concern as well. “I didn’t slave away and lose sleep creating that necklace for you to _not_ use it, Geralt,” the sorceress reprimands. He turns to Jaskier for backup. Unluckily, it seems that the other two have formed an uneasy alliance. At least in this.

Not quite meeting his gaze, the fae mutters, “Unfortunately, our dear Yennefer is right. You should keep that on— at least for now.”

His nostrils flare, and the witcher lets out one annoyed snort. He carefully doesn’t ask how long ‘for now’ is, and instead grumbles, “Alright.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

_I should have asked how long ‘for now’ is_ , Geralt thinks, turning over restlessly. He frowns, staring silently up at the night sky. The moonlight is dim— but that’s not much of a problem for him. It’s been nearly a week since Yennefer joined them on the road, and after some initial debate, they decided to head to Gors Velen. Yennefer has a second home in the city— he’s been there on a few occasions during the long time that they’ve known one another. Apparently it’s even more fortified than the one Geralt is familiar with.

“You never know when you’ll be in need of good warding,” Yen had said practically.

He’d carefully resisted the desire to roll his eyes or quip, ‘From what? Other sorceresses?’ because aside from the city’s proximity to the Isle of Thanedd, there isn’t much else in the area a person needs to protect themself from. Save for petty crooks, that is. Or perhaps the occasional sewer-dwelling monster. But Yen hardly needs warding for either of those things. Once again Geralt finds himself grateful that witchers— his brothers, at the very least— do not care for the particular brand of scheming and intrigue that seems to plague most of the magic-using community.

But since they are in need of protection, and it can be found in Gors Velen, then Geralt sees no reason why they shouldn’t go there. Plotting sorceresses or not. Much as he dislikes the idea of endangering innocents, or even cities themselves, the more he thinks about it the more the witcher likes the plan. At least because staying at Yennefer’s city-home will allow them time to consider their strategy moving forward. Between the warding and the protection offered by the city itself (Jaskier has yet to correct his assumption that the Fay do not like approaching Human settlements), they’ll be safe. And that is good enough. He’s tired of running around like a cockatrice with its head cut off.

So it is slightly mind-boggling, as well as infuriating, that they travel as unhurriedly as they do. Their progress since Yen joined them has been practically glacial, and he frequently finds himself gritting his teeth, on the edge of snapping at one or both of his companions that danger is no excuse for moving so fucking slowly. If anything, the witcher feels that they should be trying to _make up_ time to reach their destination more quickly. But Jaskier and Yen seem to think that a threat lurks behind every tree, in every shadow, and so insist on always being watchful. That means they move at a consistent pace with Geralt riding Roach in the back and the sorceress and fae guarding their front.

**• ~ * ~ •**

_Perhaps I wouldn’t be so irritated if I could manage some fucking_ _sleep_. The witcher sits up silently, and rubs a hand over his eyes, feeling how his brow furrows in frustration. Further irking him is the fact that, for once, Geralt knows exactly what’s causing his insomnia. No one— aside from Yennefer, Eskel, and Lambert, as well as Vesemir very occasionally, really _touches_ him. At least not casually, not carefully. Geralt has been touched by plenty of people, but usually it’s violent, or a social formality such as a handshake, or by a healer if he’s really badly off.

At first he doesn’t realize that the lack of touch is what’s making him restless. Despite Jaskier’s often ravenous appetite for physical contact, Geralt does not think of himself as a tactile person. He accepts the fae’s need to pat his back, squeeze his hand, nudge him, and enjoys when they sit together, closer than a young tree’s rings. He obviously enjoys their less innocent touching as well, but that’s a different matter.

For the first few days, the witcher thinks that he’s just tired, that his snappishness and irritability are a result of that. Or simply because he’s under a good deal of stress. But no, it’s not just that, he eventually decides. Geralt is no stranger to sleepless nights, but he can usually identify _some_ tangible cause for them; perhaps an unsettling interaction, a bad hunt, something of that sort. Yes, he is currently very worried, but this is far from the first tight situation he’s been in, and he has backup now. Worry alone shouldn’t be enough to send him tossing and turning, clenching his fists, and exhaling sharply when it’s the small hours and he _still_ hasn’t been able to keep his eyes closed for more than an hour or two.

The cause of his ~~suffering~~ sleeplessness abruptly becomes clear to him on the fourth day.

They stop at midday to eat quickly, and Jaskier plops down on the ground beside him, closer than he has been in _days_. The fae offers Geralt a quiet little smile that just steals his breath right away. The witcher swallows his lump of jerky and attempts a return smile. He probably looks more upset than happy, in fact, Geralt _knows_ that he does, but Jaskier says nothing. They eat in silence, sitting in the dirt on a backwater road in the woods, and it’s perfect.

Geralt imagines that he can feel Jaskier’s body heat through the distance— he _almost_ can with his enhanced witchers’ senses— and briefly inhales the fae’s familiar, comforting scent. The tight feeling in his chest, a constant ever since he took his first step on the Path but recently worsened, loosens slightly. He never realized that breathing could be so easy. Is _supposed_ to be so easy.

When they’re finished eating, Jaskier gets to his feet, and out of habit offers him a hand up, seeming to forget their… predicament. A darkness falls over the fae’s face, and he drops the hand heavily a moment later. Geralt smiles softly at him and rises, brushing dirt from his backside. Jaskier’s returning smile wavers, and he turns away before either of them say something that they shouldn’t.

During sleepless nights after that incident, Geralt combs over everything that’s happened since Yennefer joined them, trying to recall the last time he kissed Jaskier, touched him, or even talked to him like they’ve become accustomed to doing before turning in for the night. In addition to the lack of touch, he realizes that their talks have died down too. Not much use in trying to have an intimate conversation when one partner is forced to keep several feet back, after all. Coincidentally, this means that Jaskier and he no longer share a bed roll and that the fae is forced to keep his nightly watches from a further distance than before.

The witcher closes his eyes and pictures the events of that afternoon, as unimportant as they are in the long-run. He doesn’t manage to sleep per se, but he feels significantly less off-balance come morning.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Understanding the cause of his restlessness doesn’t stop him from experiencing it. A diagnosis is not a cure, merely the first step towards one. And there will be no ‘cure’ for Geralt’s condition until, and only after, they solve his Fay problem. Jaskier is not going to stop worrying about him, and he is hardly going to acquiesce to risking the witcher’s safety for something as ~~stupid~~ ~~irrational~~ unimportant as a kiss, or the chance for them to touch. Even if the witcher knows that the fae feels their lack of contact as keenly, or perhaps even more so than he does.

Meaning that Geralt continues to lose sleep and is irritable. And lonely. And restless. _Meaning that he’s inclined to wake up in the middle of the night, absolutely alert, and is unable to do anything about it_. Like now. The witcher huffs, rubs at his eyes again, and silently gets to his feet. Perhaps a walk, or some meditation, will help him work through some of his… issues. Geralt pulls his boots on and slips out of camp.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The night isn’t chilly exactly, but the cool undercurrent to the air reminds the witcher of time’s passage. Autumn is still distant, but it is coming. He wonders absently what will happen this year if Jaskier will argue with him about returning to the Keep. What lies he’ll be forced to tell his family if it isn’t safe for him to. Geralt frowns and shoves the thought aside. He already can’t sleep, no need to make it any worse.

With a huff, the witcher shakes his head and creeps forward quietly, keeping a hand loosely at his side, ready to draw one of his swords if needed.

After a few more minutes of walking, he finds a suitable spot— a large rock that offers a moonlight-dappled view of the valley below. Gors Velen is by the water, and so lies lower than the surrounding land. Even if he can’t see much of the landscape at the moment, just knowing it’s there is enough and gives his brain something else to focus on besides his current troubles. Geralt inhales deeply, draws his silver sword, sets it by his feet, then closes his eyes and turns his attention inwards.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Only the vibration of his medallion alerts Geralt to an outside presence. He stiffens, coming out of his meditation abruptly, and his hand creeps toward his sword. Dread pools in his stomach and the witcher thinks, _I’m not going to reach it in time_. Then the rest of his senses readjust, and he realizes that it’s just Jaskier. The hair-raising sense of suppressed terror eases. ‘How long have you been there?’ he doesn’t ask. From the fae’s thoughtful frown, and the intense look in his eyes, he’s been there long enough.

The faint moonlight alone makes Jaskier look ethereal, more so than he usually does, and the dark shadows his face in a way that almost makes the witcher feel slightly breathless. He’s beautiful. Beautiful in a way that Geralt— if he’d ever had a chance to be at all— lost long ago. Suddenly, that tight feeling in his chest increases, like a vise, and he just can’t stand it any longer. He stumbles to his feet— _how long exactly **have** I been out here?_

Before Jaskier has a chance to speak, to make him change his mind, the witcher rips off Yen’s necklace and stuffs it into his pocket. He pauses momentarily as the slightly purple _haze_ which has been clouding his vision for the past several days disappears. But even this is not enough to deter Geralt from his task. He marches toward a worried, slightly wide-eyed Jaskier, pulls him forward, and kisses him.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Jaskier stiffens momentarily beneath his lips, as if he wants to say something, but as Geralt brings a hand up, and gently cups the fae’s cool cheek, he melts into the kiss with a sudden, dizzying intensity. It nearly overwhelms the witcher, and abruptly _he’s_ the one who almost breaks off the kiss, wanting to ask why Jaskier is kissing him like he’s worried there won’t be another opportunity to, like it’s the end of the world. ‘Slow down,’ Geralt wants to tell him, ‘I’m _right here_. I’m fine. I’m alive.’ He says none of those things, merely allows the fae’s burning urgency to infect him, set him alight.

If the world were less cruel, this would be the perfect moment to say, “I love you.”

Thankfully, Geralt’s mouth is busy reacquainting itself with Jaskier’s; he’s too distracted to think about that. Therefore, he doesn’t have an opportunity to speak those three deadly words. But his heart says them for him, loudly and passionately with every beat. Later, when the witcher does recognize the lost opportunity, he’ll be grateful that it passed him by. Even if those words’ burden is so terribly and utterly heavy in his chest, his mind. _The last thing we need to be added to this shitshow_ , he reminds himself, frowning darkly, _is more drama_.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Yennefer, as intelligent and perceptive as she is, is well aware that something’s happened between them. But she doesn’t comment on their increased closeness, how Geralt removes her necklace at night so that Jaskier can sit by his side during his self-appointed watch duties or even lie down with him. Nor does she mention her worries about what this means in the future if one of them doesn’t make it.

These days, whenever the sorceress thinks about the matter of Geralt’s heart, she can’t quite help but picture its destruction: a fortress with its doors flung open, smoking and aflame. Frowning, Yennefer hopes that it doesn’t come to pass, and sends off a little prayer: _Gods protect both of them_. To whom or what it’s directed, she’s not sure.

**• ~ * ~ •**

As expected, entering the city is an unpleasant experience. Geralt’s nose wrinkles in disgust at the wide array of scents— most of them unpleasant— as well as the noise and the discomforted or hateful looks their group (himself specifically) receives. Yennefer pays this no mind, of course, as the sorceress generally has a low opinion of the public and a rather high opinion of herself. Jaskier seems to notice his discomfort, but he, apparently, is somewhat overwhelmed by their surroundings as well. The witcher wonders absently when the last time the fae visited a Human city of this size was.

Their first stop is to a local stable which Yen assures him is of top quality, and so will provide Roach with excellent care. Then they wander further into the city, closer to Thanedd itself. The witcher tracks how the buildings and people become cleaner and more orderly with increased proximity to the Isle. Yen stops outside a building— a bank, he thinks— and tells them to stay put.

“Have you been here before?” Jaskier asks idly as they wait.

He snorts, recalling the specifics of his last visit to the city— at least with Yennefer. “Yes, years ago. There was a gathering at Aretuza which Yennefer brought me along to. It was… an experience.”

“I see.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Yennefer’s city-home is much smaller than the other, although it is still grander than what many folks are accustomed to. It’s narrow, with two stories, and is surrounded by a plain, wrought iron gate. Behind this are twin shrubs, trimmed into neat squares, and beyond that is a small patch of grass, surrounded by flat cobblestones and a smooth path up to the stairs. The walls are off-white and the door a deep shade of green. Dark blue curtains conceal the windows’ interior. The knocker is brass, in the shape of a serpent, or perhaps a dragon. Yen unlocks the door and Geralt and Jaskier follow closely behind. The witcher doesn’t miss how the sorceress mutters a few words beneath her breath after the door’s been shut. His medallion trembles slightly.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“Lucky for you, there’s only one guest room— I turned the other into an office,” Yen says after their brief tour is finished. She pauses at the foot of the stairs. “The servants have been alerted to our arrival and should be here before evening. I’d advise both of you to get some rest. We can regroup later.” With that, she leaves.

Geralt turns to Jaskier, who wiggles his brow comically. “Well, well, well. We’re alone,” the fae says. “Would you like to inspect our quarters?” The witcher removes Yen’s necklace and leads the way upstairs.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Yennefer has a separate area for bathing, which is somewhat novel for Geralt, who’s used to inns’ practical practice of putting the tub in the room itself with no privacy barriers. So he’s a bit surprised when Jaskier returns from his bath pink-faced and in bard-form. It’s been a while since the other man felt the need to glamour himself, and Geralt is distracted by inspecting his armor— these days it’s _especially_ important that it’s in good condition. So he may or may not make a small noise when the bard reappears in their room, toweling off his still-damp hair.

Jaskier laughs. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you like this form, Witcher.”

Geralt stills. “I- it’s— you’re beautiful.”

The bard preens. “Why thank you, Geralt. You’re quite handsome yourself. We make a rather good pair.”

He snorts. “Sure.”

Geralt moves in for a kiss, but Jaskier stops him with a hand to his chest, nose wrinkling. “Sorry, witcher mine, but not until after you’ve bathed. I’d hate for this outfit to get dirty.”

“Fine.” He breaks away from the bard and retrieves what he needs to clean up. It’s only after he’s already in the bath that Geralt realizes: _I missed another opportunity to say “I love you.”_

**• ~ * ~ •**

“What if they summon Geralt to Court?” Yen asks bluntly.

Some time has passed since their arrival, and the evening meal has been eaten. They’ve retired to the sitting room— rather like a compact version of Yennefer’s office in her larger home— and have begun discussing what happens next. The witcher already has a headache. He’s reminded once again why he initially doubted that it’d be a good idea to introduce the sorceress and the fae to one another: the infernal _arguing_.

Jaskier glares fiercely. “I won’t let them—”

Yen huffs irritably. “Yes, that’s very good, Jaskier. I’m glad Geralt has found someone who’s so ferally protective of him. But what can we actually do to stop it?”

The bard loses his angry expression, and actually looks… a bit deflated. It makes Geralt feel even more worried. That means there’s _nothing_ they can do. And both from what Jaskier has told him, as well as his gut feelings, the witcher knows that he does not want to be forced to go to Faerieland or to Court. His frown deepens and his fists clench. There is nothing he hates more than feeling helpless.

“Well, I suppose we could fake his death.” Geralt and Yen share a look at the ridiculous suggestion.

“No,” he replies flatly.

“Mm. Too difficult,” Yen mutters thoughtfully. “I’m not sure that even my magic would be enough to fool your Court satisfactorily. And I don’t much fancy the idea of bringing another magic-user into this.”

This time, he shoots a look at Yennefer. “We’re _not_ faking my death.” _I can only imagine how the others would react_.

Yennefer glares at him in return. “Speaking of your family, Geralt, do they have _any_ idea what’s been going on?”

Out of the corner of his eye, the witcher sees Jaskier move forward hesitantly to place a hand on his shoulder. Geralt shrugs him off, focusing entirely on the sorceress. “No, they don’t. And I’d prefer it to stay that way.”

She throws up her hands, expression stormy. “Whyever not? It’s not as if we have a lot of other options. You need to at least consider it, Geralt!”

“I don’t want them getting hurt _because of me!_ ”

“Um.” Geralt breaks his gaze away from Yen, breathing hard, and realizes how close they’ve gotten. He takes a step back. Jaskier clears his throat. “Perhaps we would be better off continuing this discussion in the morning? After we’ve _all_ gotten some rest… Besides, we don’t know for sure that Geralt will be called to Court—” the bard frowns, drumming his fingers on his thigh, “in fact, I rather doubt it. Even if he is, we should still have time to figure out a solution.”

Yen’s hackles lower, and she gives Jaskier a thoughtful look. “Fine. We’ll resume tomorrow. Goodnight, Geralt, Jaskier,” she says stiffly, giving them a small nod and then sweeping out of the room. They watch her go.

Then Jaskier turns to him and smiles. “How about we head up too? I, for one, am looking forward to using an actual bed for once.”

Despite everything, Geralt returns the smile. “Me as well.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

It’s quiet, and he can hardly hear any of the city’s noises. The witcher wonders absently if that’s just because there’s less night-time activity in Gors Velen’s richer neighborhoods or if it’s because of something Yen’s done to her house. _It doesn’t matter_ , he concludes, closing his eyes again. He sighs softly, and turns over. Jaskier is facing him, curled in on himself slightly. Interestingly, his glamor has disappeared in his sleep, even though Geralt is fairly positive he’d gone to bed in his bardic form. The curtains are closed, and he wishes that they weren’t so he had something to look at besides the ceiling. But Geralt doesn’t want to risk getting up to open them, not if that might wake Jaskier.

He’s sure that the fae had intended to stay up and keep watch, even if they’re relatively safe here. The fact that he’s asleep now only means that Jaskier must be _exhausted_. And that makes Geralt feel incredibly guilty. _How much more will he suffer because of me?_ He squeezes his eyes shut briefly. This feeling? This is exactly why he doesn’t want to involve the other Wolves. Even if Yennefer may be right that they need more allies—

Jaskier lets out a low snore and shuffles closer, throwing a heavy, limp arm over Geralt. The witcher freezes, and blinks, casting his gaze down to the wayward limb. A small smile crosses his face before the crushing worry seeps back in again. Geralt frowns and closes his eyes in an attempt to get _some_ rest. He needs it.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The next morning, Jaskier gets summoned to Court. His summons comes in the form of an elegantly-scripted letter, written on thick, smooth parchment.

They’re in the middle of eating breakfast when one of the servants— a nervous older woman— steps through the dining room’s doorway with an envelope in hand. There’s even a wax seal, although it looks like no wax Geralt has ever seen before and the whole letter makes his medallion rumble. “Letter for one of your guests, Mistress,” she says, glancing down at the envelope, “For… Julian.”

Jaskier grimaces slightly but quickly disguises his unease behind a sunny smile. “That’d be me, dear lady.” He stands and retrieves the envelope. The servant bows, and ducks out of the room.

After he’s done reading the letter, Jaskier sighs. He folds the parchment up and tucks it back into the envelope, stuffing that into his breast pocket. “Well that’s that, I suppose. I’m honestly a bit surprised this didn’t come sooner.” The bard looks up and sees them staring. He puts on a wavering smile, eyes flickering to Geralt. The witcher hates it. Hates the fear he feels at that expression, the panic that’s fighting to overwhelm him. “I’d better go pack my things.”

Geralt and Yennefer look at one another silently as Jaskier leaves the room and goes to do just that. Their expressions are mirrors of worry. It’s begun, and only the Gods know how it’ll end up.

The sound of someone bounding down the stairs pulls the witcher from his thoughts. He stands, as does Yennefer. Jaskier reappears, and stops in the doorway, bouncing on his heels slightly. He’s changed into formal attire, but Geralt doesn’t pay any attention to how well the outfit suits him. The witcher’s too concerned by the warm, sad look in the other man’s eyes. He doesn’t like that look.

Yennefer steps forward, frowning slightly. She and Jaskier stare at one another for a long moment. The sorceress crosses her arms. “I expect to see you back here in one piece, you understand? Otherwise who else am I to argue philosophy with, _Geralt_?”

Jaskier smirks. “I wouldn’t dare leave you without an argumentative partner. _Someone_ has to correct your sophistic thinking after all, Yennefer.”

The sorceress snorts. “Right. Be safe, Fae.”

Jaskier nods. “Of course.” The fae adjusts his pack— Jaskier’s never traveled with much, doesn’t need to when he can just pop back home for more supplies— then holds out his lute. He meets the witcher’s eyes. “Take care of her for me, Geralt— just until I get back.” Geralt steps forward and carefully grabs hold of the instrument. Their hands rest on the lute’s neck, inches apart. They stay that way for a long moment.

Then the fae lets go, and he pulls the strap across his body. “I will.”

Jaskier offers him a sunny smile. But Geralt’s insides still feel cold. “Right then. I’d better be off— don’t want to keep them waiting.”

The witcher feels himself nod, and agree— as if from a great distance— “Yeah, I guess you should.” The fae hesitates as if waiting to see if he’ll say something else. Something like, ‘I love you.’ Geralt doesn’t. He can’t. He’s not brave enough. _I love you, Jaskier… but for both our sakes it’d be easier if I didn’t_. “Good luck,” he forces himself to spit out instead.

Jaskier nods, concealing his disappointment poorly. “I shouldn’t need it, but… thanks. See you around, Geralt.”

He disappears.

Geralt stares at the empty space that’s left behind for a long time. Until Yennefer places a hand on his shoulder and pushes him slightly towards the door. “Come on, Witcher, we’ve still got work to do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me using my quarantine feels to describe Geralt’s sense of isolation? It’s more likely than you think. 
> 
> Tiiiinnnyy bit of dialogue borrowed from the show; you’ll know where.


	12. Persecution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After going without a word from Jaskier for a prolonged period of time, Yennefer and Geralt start arguing about what their next steps should be, but don’t reach any conclusions. Tensions run high. The sorceress, concerned about what their future holds, goes rogue. Eventually, they decide to regroup at Kaer Morhen even though the other Wolves have no idea about what’s been going on… supposedly. The fae’s unexpected, but welcome, reappearance sets off a chain of events with dramatic consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that Graphic Violence warning? Yeah, it applies here.

Three weeks pass and there’s no word from Jaskier. Geralt reminds himself that they’ve gone without communicating for longer, but he still worries. Yen surely senses his anxiety, but she says nothing. Despite her cool demeanor, Geralt can tell the sorceress is concerned too; if not for Jaskier himself, then on his behalf. Yet there’s nothing they can do but wait. Most mornings find the windows coated in a thin layer of frost, and as they eat breakfast, he watches cloak-covered people hurry by outside, breath spiraling out behind them.

During the day, the witcher is kept busy running errands for Yennefer. Geralt knows what she’s doing, but he doesn’t mind. Otherwise, he reads or takes a walk through the quieter areas of the city. In the evening, they either eat in the sitting room, poring over books on the Fair Folk, or in near silence at the large dining room table. When he can’t sleep, the witcher stares at Jaskier’s lute, which sits against the back wall of their room.

**• ~ * ~ •**

At the end of the fourth week, they eat in the dining room again. It’s quiet save for the clink of glasses and of silverware scraping over dishware. Yennefer reads from the book she’s propped against the nearly-empty wine decanter. This leaves Geralt alone with his thoughts. As he eats, the witcher can’t quite keep his eyes from straying to the empty chair beside him. After finishing his wine, the witcher sets the goblet down a bit too hard. He scowls. Yen slowly looks up. “Geralt.”

“Sorry,” he grumbles. “Go back to your reading. I’ll just… go check on Roach.”

The sorceress sighs, rubs her eyes. Then she stands slowly, closing her book with a thump. “Well this conversation is overdue as it is— you’ll have to visit Roach later.”

Geralt’s jaw twitches. He carefully doesn’t cross his arms over his chest like he wants to. Yen observes this, looking ready for an argument. The atmosphere is thick with tension; one spark will make them explode. It feels almost like the old days when they were still together. That drains the fight right out of him. Since they broke up and formed this friendship, they haven’t fought so viciously. And he doesn’t want to start now. The witcher sighs. “Fine. I’ll wait.”

Yennefer nods, and if she feels any satisfaction at having successfully corralled him, politely hides it. “Good. Shall we retire to the sitting room?”

**• ~ * ~ •**

In the sitting room, Yen gestures for him to light the candles, and he takes care of the fire as well. Then Geralt joins her on the small, green velvet couch, maintaining a hairsbreadth of space between them when he sits. Yen’s hands are relaxed, resting loosely in her lap. This doesn’t reassure him. The fire pops. Yen stares at it, and the rosy tones light her face up, catch her violet eyes. “I’ve been doing some research,” she says abruptly, turning to look at him.

Geralt keeps his face neutral. “And?”

“I haven’t learned a fucking thing.” Yennefer sighs and her eyes soften. She places a smooth, delicate hand over his large, scarred one. “We need to consider—”

Geralt’s yellow eyes bore into hers. “Don’t you think I _know_ that, Yennefer? Can’t you tell I’ve already considered it? Read my mind if there’s any doubt about my _concern_ that Jaskier might be imprisoned. That he might be…” the witcher trails off with a grimace and looks away from the sorceress. _I worry constantly that Jaskier is gone. That I missed my chance to tell him I—_

Yennefer sighs. She shuffles closer, silently loops an arm around his stiff shoulders, and leans her head against him. They stay that way for a long time. But eventually, she straightens up and places a hand on his knee. “I’m truly sorry, Geralt. I am. But if Jaskier’s— if he’s trapped, or otherwise incapacitated, then we need to consider other options.”

He keeps his voice calm when he asks, “What do you mean?”

Yen gives him a funny look. As if the answer is obvious. “Your brothers, Geralt.”

His heart seizes. _No_. If— if Jaskier is gone, that’s bad enough. But he will not lose his family too. “We can handle it,” the witcher replies stiffly.

The sorceress laughs. “We don’t even know what the ‘it’ is that needs handling! If Jaskier had been more serious in his efforts against you, do you know what would have happened? You would’ve died! We got lucky, much as it pains me to admit it. But I— unlike you, apparently— have common fucking sense. We are out of our depth, Geralt. And to be blunt, since our best source on the Fay has disappeared we need Kaer Morhen’s library. We need help, which your brothers can provide.” 

“No—”

“Bloody hell, Geralt, you ass. _Listen to me_. I don’t want to lose you! Especially not because of something as stupid as your stubbornness.”

Silence crashes over the room. Geralt is startled by the slight glimmer in his companion’s eyes. For the first time in days, he takes in Yennefer’s appearance fully. There are dark shadows beneath her eyes and she’s pale. Her dress is wrinkled. Instead of the usual careful curls, her hair hangs limply across her back. She’s not wearing any jewelry. Her face is bare. _Oh_.

He swallows, then carefully exhales. Gods, he doesn’t _want_ to endanger his brothers, but Yen does have a point. On their own, they’re out of their depth. They need help. Because Jaskier ~~is not~~ probably isn’t coming back. “I’ll consider it.”

Yen sighs, and her shoulders drop. “Thank you… We should both get some sleep.” She briefly rests a hand on his shoulder, then leaves the room. Geralt listens to her walk up the stairs. _Fuck_. He sighs again, and sinks onto the floor before the fire, feeling no desire to sleep yet. Instead, he stares into the flames, thinking things over.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Yennefer does not go straight to sleep. She is worried. As well as frustrated. And concerned— both by the situation at large and about Geralt. He’s been in a terrible mood, seemingly ignorant or perhaps uncaring if she notices. At first, even until the third week, the sorceress had held out hope that Jaskier was alright, that whatever procedures were taking place at the Unseelie Court were merely happening slower than expected. But now she is… alarmed.

 _Yes_ , Yen admits privately, _I am worried by Jaskier’s absence. If nothing else, by the fact that he hasn’t contacted Geralt yet_. Neither of these things bode well for their situation. Of the lessons she’s learned from Aretuza, Yennefer is most grateful for her ruthless self-sufficiency and ability to assess a situation. There are a select few other magic-users whom she trusts, but most are woefully unprepared for battle— at least direct battle. Against the Fair Folk, who fight with magic, and physically, such tactics won’t work.

Witchers, however, are well-equipped for fighting. With two— or perhaps three if Vesemir joins them— others, herself, and Geralt, they may be able to fend off whatever attack comes. The extensive library at Kaer Morhen will be exceptionally useful too, but if she and Geralt are forced to comb its depths in secret, this will severely limit its helpfulness. Working with more heads for once _will_ be beneficial. Not to mention the psychological benefits. With Eskel and Lambert by their side, everyone will have less of a burden placed on their shoulders. Yen also sees how carrying this secret has worn on Geralt. She understands _why_ he’s kept Jaskier’s existence from the others up to this point, but now… it’s rather pointless.

The sorceress sits down and writes a letter:

_Dear Eskel,_

_I am writing about your idiot brother. Not Lambert, the other one. Geralt has gotten himself into trouble again. I know you’re less than fond of me, but know that whatever transgressions you believe I’ve committed against him in the past, I act out of sincere and genuine concern for Geralt now. The idiot has involved himself with an Unseelie fae, Jaskier, and the Court is none too happy about this. That is the brief version of events._

_Your brother has repeatedly said that he wishes you to remain uninvolved, as he fears you being hurt. But Jaskier has recently disappeared, and I worry about what’s to come. We are out of our depth. He needs your help. I will explain the situation in greater detail upon our arrival at Kaer Morhen._

_Sincerely,_   
_Yennefer_

With a sigh, she seals the envelope and sends it off. _Forgive me, Geralt, but I want to live. And I would like you to live too_.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Two days later, Yen abruptly announces: “Pack your things. We’re going to Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt blinks once but sees no reason to argue. “Alright.”

They portal to the keep later that afternoon.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“Geralt. Good to see you,” Eskel says, clasping his hand.

If the White Wolf notices any of the tension present in his brother’s expression or posture, he ignores it. This isn’t the moment for that. They have all winter to talk. Geralt smiles. “Good to see you too, Eskel.” Lambert, who’s leaning against the wall, waves. He waves back.

Behind the three witchers, Yennefer stands stiffly, gripping Roach’s reins. Eskel’s gaze briefly flicks to her face, then away.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Although Yennefer has been to the keep before, it’s always strange when an outsider, guest or not, is here. Eskel is polite and even makes conversation with her. Lambert mostly avoids the sorceress, although when they are forced to interact, he manages to be civil. _Probably because he’s a little afraid of her_ , Geralt thinks, amused. Despite the presence of his family, he cannot help but feel that something’s missing… It’s Jaskier.

While the fae has disappeared for months before, this time is different. This time— dramatic or not— the witcher can’t help but feel like a piece of himself has vanished with him. It’s different now because he didn’t love Jaskier before, and the fae wasn’t risking his safety to defend him. But Geralt can hardly explain this to anyone— aside from Yen, and she’s been listening to him bellyache too much already. He won’t make her listen to more of his complaining. Not to mention it’ll only give her more ammunition in her quest to persuade him to tell Eskel and Lambert about what’s been going on.

Of course, if Geralt had been paying more attention, he might have noticed how Yennefer seems to be spending a suspicious amount of time with Eskel already.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“Geralt!” The witcher whirls around. He stares, mind blank with shock. _Jaskier._

“You’re alive.” Geralt takes one step, and then Jaskier flings himself forward and they’re embracing. He buries his face in the fae’s hair, breathing in his familiar scent. “You’re _alive_ ,” Geralt whispers.

Jaskier hugs him back, murmurs, “I’m so sorry, Geralt, but there was no other way. I had to—”

“What happened?” If Jaskier is _here_ then the Court must have made its decision.

“They decided in our favor,” the fae says quickly. He frees one of his arms and brushes a hand over the witcher’s cheek. “My father defended me! After the verdict, Valdo turned tail and ran off— probably back to his father’s house. We’re _free_.”

“Just like that?” he asks numbly. _Can it truly be **that** easy?_

Jaskier grasps the witcher’s face between his hands. “Yes, just like that. Everything’s alright now.”

Still reeling, Geralt inquires, “But the Solstice? I thought—”

“I decided that the Solstice can go fuck itself.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then they both laugh. For a moment, the witcher feels as if he’s been wearing his armor for days on end and has finally taken it off. Then he sobers. “I don’t know what to say—”

“Say nothing, dearest. You don’t have to.” Jaskier sweeps him into a kiss.

The door bangs open. “Oi, Geralt, get your ass out here! Eskel and I want to talk to—” Geralt breaks away from Jaskier and spins around. His wide eyes meet Lambert’s, and behind his youngest brother, Eskel’s.

“So it’s _true_. There really is a fae?” Eskel asks stonily, walking forward.

Geralt steps in front of Jaskier, keeping the bulk of his body between him and his brothers. He doesn’t think it’ll come to a fight, but for a moment, just a moment, the witcher wishes he had his swords. He frowns, feeling nauseous. “Lambert, Eskel—”

“Shut up!” Lambert hisses, lurching forward. Eskel catches the youngest witcher by his collar, dragging him back. Then he closes the door, releases his hold on Lambert, and crosses his arms expectantly. There’s a prolonged silence. Jaskier shifts, and Geralt quickly shoots the fae a look. Lambert shuffles uneasily on his feet again. Eskel clears his throat.

“How long?” Geralt finally asks, subdued.

“Since before you arrived. Yennefer told us,” Eskel replies stiffly.

“What.” The witcher nearly doesn’t recognize his voice, with its sudden flat fury. Jaskier lays a hand on his shoulder. Eskel’s eyes narrow. Lambert snarls. Geralt’s head snaps up, and he feels his heartbeat quicken. His eyes dart to the closed door. _How long until Vesemir gets here?_ Tendrils of panic swirl in his gut. Things were going so well. He doesn’t want to— can’t— fight his brothers. But neither can Geralt allow any harm to come to Jaskier.

“Geralt.” It’s Eskel again. His eyes are soft, pleading. “Talk to us brother, it’s alright.”

“Vesemir,” he manages to choke out.

“Is off hunting,” Eskel reassures. “Lambert goaded him into it.” From the corner, Lambert gives him a loose salute, still looking angry.

“Well, how do _I_ know that you won’t hurt him?” Jaskier challenges, peering around his shoulder.

“We’re his family, shit-head. We’d never,” Lambert snaps. Behind him, Geralt feels the fae tense. He reaches back blindly and grabs Jaskier’s wrist.

“HEY!” Their collective attention turns to Eskel. He frowns reproachfully at Lambert, facial scars twisting to make him look even more serious. Then his gaze moves to Jaskier. Geralt can’t see the fae’s expression, but he can imagine it perfectly. “Jaskier, right?” Eskel asks.

“Yes.”

“Alright then. We’re not going to hurt Geralt, Jaskier. We just want to talk to him. Brother to brother.”

He can practically feel the weight of Jaskier’s measured stare. He radiates distrust. “Is that a promise, Witcher?”

Eskel answers without missing a beat: “You have my word.”

Jaskier steps forward and glances briefly at Geralt. “I’ll find Yennefer.” He vanishes.

Geralt’s shoulders sag briefly. Lambert is sneering again when he looks up. His heart sinks. It drops further at the grim expression on Eskel’s face. The other witcher opens the door and gestures for them to exit. “It’s time we talked, brother. You’ve got some explaining to do.” _I know_ , Geralt thinks. He doesn’t miss the way Eskel shifts away from him so that they don’t accidentally touch when he shuffles through the door. _I know_.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Their destination, apparently, is the library. Once they’re there, Eskel sits them down at one of the round tables. He looks at Geralt expectantly.

Aside from a few snide comments from Lambert— or clarifying questions from Eskel— he’s largely allowed to speak uninterrupted. Throughout his relaying of events, his brothers’ expressions shift from angry, to wary, to exasperated, to understanding, and back. Especially after he explains, “It’s not that I didn’t _trust_ you enough to… to tell you of Jaskier’s existence, but rather that I didn’t involve you because I was worried.”

The other witchers groan at this— they’re both well-aware of how overprotective Geralt is.

After a long pause, Eskel slumps over in his chair and runs a hand over his mouth. When he finally straightens up again, he gives his white-haired brother an unimpressed look. “You’re an idiot, Geralt—”

“A _fucking_ asshole as well,” Lambert interjects unnecessarily. They both glare at him.

“But,” Eskel continues, “you’re our idiot—”

“A bloody shit-headed idiot—”

“Yes, fine, Lambert,” Eskel snaps. He turns back to Geralt. “You’re a bloody shit-headed idiot _and_ a fucking asshole, Geralt. But you’re still our brother. We’ll get past this...” Eskel trails off, sighing. He meets Geralt’s gaze again, revealing the depth of his hurt. “It’ll just take some time.”

“A long fucking time,” Lambert mutters, gaze averted.

Geralt’s heart lightens and he tries not to smile. _That’s good enough_.

**• ~ * ~ •**

A few weeks later, Eskel and Lambert have cooled off slightly. They haven’t forgiven Geralt— won’t for a long time yet— but his brothers treat him almost normally, which is a relief. They’ve even spoken to Jaskier on a few occasions, albeit in brief and awkward snippets. Geralt tries not to blame them for it. After all, it’s difficult for them to converse when Vesemir still has no idea of the fae’s existence. Through mutual, unspoken agreement, they’ve decided that it’s probably best to keep it that way.

So when Geralt starts doing the majority of the hunting ‘alone,’ neither of his brothers complain. It works out because the White Wolf has always been somewhat prone to anti-socialness, and that’s liable to worsen after he’s been cooped up for too long. Vesemir probably thinks that they’re letting him have some much-needed solitude. And if he doesn’t wear Yen’s necklace on any of his hunts, well that’s Geralt’s business. He hasn’t spoken to the sorceress— unless it’s absolutely necessary— since Eskel revealed that she told him about Jaskier.

They have no reason to think that there’s any more danger than usual since the Court cleared his name. It’s fine.

**• ~ * ~ •**

At first, the witcher doesn’t notice that anything’s wrong. Whether that’s a result of his carelessness or Valdo Marx’s planning, Geralt doesn’t know. All that matters is that by the time his medallion vibrates, and he notices the dark shadow following him and Jaskier, they’re already several miles away from Kaer Morhen. More specifically, they’re crossing a clearing in the woods, tracking a herd of deer. Geralt shoves Jaskier out of the way, already pulling out his silver sword as he hears something dive through the air toward them.

His first assumption is that it’s a Wyvern, Foxtail, or maybe even a Griffin. It isn’t. The beast has enormous, leathery batwings, fierce, furred paws, sharp claws, a mane, and an insectoid tail with a vicious, dripping stinger on its end. Curiously, there’s a red ribbon tied around the monster’s neck. _Did someone send it here?_ Jaskier’s sudden outburst of “Valdo!” is answer enough.

They glance at one another, both feeling like utter fools. Marx didn’t leave Court so hastily because he was embarrassed or concerned about his safety. He left because he was already planning _something else_. The witcher quickly reaches for his steel blade— in addition to their rareness, Manticores have the unique trait among monsters of being invulnerable to silver. The beast raises its tail. He knows he’s going to move too late and prepares for the fierce, burning agony of its venom—

The fae dives in front of him and gets a face-full of venom instead.

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouts. The man in question retches, shoulders heaving. The Manticore shrieks, beating its wings. He manages to keep his footing. Jaskier does not. The witcher rushes to Jaskier’s side and manages to cast Quen just in time to avoid another splatter of venom. He keeps the sign active and kneels.

The fae, whose face is already drooping, stares up at him. As the monster paws the ground, preparing to attack, Geralt drops Quen and casts Yrden. That should hold it for long enough for him to get Jaskier to safety. A sudden tug on his non-sword-holding hand makes the witcher look down. There’s a large, angry splotch where the venom hit Jaskier’s face. It makes him see red. “Ge’ut o‘ere. ’ll be… fine,” Jaskier slurs.

“I’m not leaving you!” he snarls, barely noticing as the Manticore breaks through his Yrden. Jaskier’s wide-eyed gaze and sudden weak shove probably save his life. The witcher lands flat on the ground, hair rippling in the breeze left by the beast’s aerial assault. Inches from his face, there is a puddle of venom. A loud shriek makes him wince.

Geralt lurches to his feet and spots the Manticore readying for another dive. He looks down. The fae is already sitting up, and stares back at him. “Go,” he insists, much more clearly than before. It’s only this which makes the witcher nod and turn around, sprinting for the trees’ cover. He doubts that the Manticore will leave since Marx has enchanted it, but he’ll at least have the advantage if he can fight it on the ground. Once Jaskier has recovered, they should be able to take care of the problem. Then they’ll deal with Valdo.

Unfortunately, as Yennefer worried, as Vesemir warned, as Geralt himself feared, it is his heart which is the witcher’s undoing. By hesitating at Jaskier’s side for so long, he loses valuable time. So when he _does_ start sprinting, it’s too late. The Manticore swoops down on him, sinks its teeth into his shoulder, and buries its stinger in his calf. Geralt lets out a wordless shout. Jaskier screams, “GERALT!”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Moving on instinct, he manages a clumsy backward slash and forces the Manticore to release its hold. The venom sac, depleted, has already sagged to the ground. The beast lets out a muffled roar. Geralt’s pulse pounds in his ears, and he moves his bitten shoulder experimentally. It throbs, but the armor blocked some of the damage. It’s the venom the witcher needs to worry about now.

Without any potions, he’s pretty much fucked. If the fae manages to get here in time, he probably won’t die… but that’s looking less and less likely. Jaskier, upon a quick search, has just managed to stand up. Geralt’s hands are already feeling tingly, bordering on numb, and he can’t feel his feet at all. Which makes dodging, or even staying upright, difficult. Even worse, the Manticore seems to be intelligent. It’s placed itself between him and the tree line so there’ll be no sneaking past it. And time is not on Geralt’s side. Every second this battle lags on puts him at an increased disadvantage as his heart spreads the venom further.

In his peripheral vision, the witcher catches the spiked tail swinging at him and stumbles out of the way, managing to raise his sword. There’s a dull thump, and then an ear-piercing roar, as the severed tail falls to the ground. He feels a brief moment of satisfaction before the Manticore rears up and flaps its horrifying wings. In his weakened state, this is enough to make Geralt stumble. He trips over a patch of uneven ground and falls. The Manticore descends upon him. Jaskier shouts in the distance. The witcher brings up his sword to slash at the beast which has him pinned with one sharp-clawed paw. The other is raised to gut him.

But the beast is apparently too furious to care about its safety. Despite the fact that his sword grazes its face, the Manticore leans down and bites into his arm. Through the encroaching, burning numbness there is pain. He screams. The sword falls. Geralt tries to punch it with his other arm, forgetting his bitten shoulder. A sharp stab of pain weakens his attack, and the Manticore only shifts back slightly, dropping his mangled arm. The witcher pants, and tries to kick out. But his legs are wobbly and nearly numb. He blinks, and debates closing his eyes as the monster circles nearer. _This is it_ —

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” The furious yell, along with the Manticore’s agonized shriek makes Geralt open his eyes.

The beast is being tugged backward by massive, deadly-looking tree roots. As it attempts one last swipe at him, the Manticore’s paw is impaled by one of the roots. It howls, dropping to the ground limply, then is dragged several feet backward. Jaskier falls to the ground beside Geralt. A large tree root wraps itself around the Manticore’s neck. With a loud _snap,_ the yowling abruptly ceases. He shivers. Not because of Jaskier’s actions.

“Geralt!” The witcher groans, eyes fluttering weakly. He hisses as a pair of soft, cool hands gently lift his injured arm and lay it on his chest. Then Jaskier is leaning over him, a fuzzy figure, save for his sharp blue eyes. _Damn the venom. Damn the Manticore. Damn Valdo Marx_. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to stay focused, and he feels colder and dizzier every moment. Behind the numbness lurks a fiery throbbing pain in his arm, his shoulder, his calf.

A hand pats his cheek. Geralt startles. He meets Jaskier’s terrified round eyes. “ ‘m, srry, Jas. Didn’ want… this.”

Jaskier shakes his head furiously. Something wet falls on Geralt’s face and drips down it. He thinks that the fae must be crying. He drifts off again. Jaskier shakes him roughly. “… have to drink this,” he insists hurriedly. Despite the pain, numbness, his exhaustion, the witcher has time to think. His lingering sense of smell tells him that whatever’s in that vial has the same scent as the potion they used to banish the Changeling oh so long ago in Velen. That potion had had substances from Faerieland in it.

Geralt shakes his head, gritting his teeth at the black spots that appear in his already-hazy vision. “Nuh- not supp’sd t’ eat… _your_ stuff.” He tries to raise a shaky hand to comfort Jaskier but is unable to. “ ‘m s’rry—” he coughs, wheezing. “I l’ve… you...” Just as his eyes close, a painful grip is prying at his jaw— trying to force it open.

“No! Stay with me, Witcher.” Despite everything, his eyes shoot open, and Geralt weakly tries to clench his teeth together. The grip’s strength increases, fingers and nails digging into the tender skin of his cheeks. The witcher can feel it, even with the numbness that’s rapidly spreading across his face. He nearly cries out. “Drink,” Jaskier pleads. “ _Please_ , Geralt, drink. I- I can’t lose you!”

He weakly shakes his head. Geralt doesn’t want to die, but he’ll take that over being trapped for all eternity in Faerieland. But the fae is too strong, too stubborn, and he too weak. As his consciousness fades— perhaps permanently— the witcher’s tongue is coated in a thick, sweet liquid. The flavor is vaguely fruity. He swallows instinctively and begins to feel an unnatural warmth bloom in his gut. Then his eyes shut, and Geralt sees no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notice that I **did not** update the Archive Warnings on this fic. That’s for a reason. 
> 
> I learned about Manticores in _The Witcher_ from the video available on [the Manticore Wiki page](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Manticore) for TW.


	13. Substance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The witcher wakes up, injured and alone, in another world. One that is unfamiliar to him. (Un)fortunately, Jaskier later makes an appearance and explains everything to him. But just because they’ve survived Valdo Marx’s monster attack doesn’t mean their problems have lessened. If anything, they have _more_ now, because by saving Geralt’s life, the fae has trapped him in Faerieland... permanently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Choo choo!* All aboard the angst train.

Waking up is both confusing and a highly uncomfortable process. Geralt blinks open his eyes, squinting as they readjust to the bright candlelight. Despite his memory’s current haziness, the witcher recalls that he was outside previously. So it’s disorienting to find himself indoors again, and in an unfamiliar bed at that. After allowing himself a moment to readjust, Geralt pushes his bodyweight up on one elbow, grunting slightly from the all-encompassing _ache_ which movement triggers; a typical response to serious injury as well as prolonged periods of unconsciousness. His sword arm also feels stiff, and his left shoulder throbs dully.

Then the witcher focuses on his surroundings.

The bed itself is ornate: a silk-curtained mahogany fourposter, without curtains. Atop it is a thick, soft red blanket decorated with a pattern of swirling yellow flowers. The sheets are similarly soft, and he can tell the mattress’s high quality from the sheer fact that he’s not any sorer. For a second, the witcher thinks that he must somehow be in Yennefer’s house again— Kaer Morhen has little decoration, let alone anything as elaborate as what he’s seen so far. There’s also the fact that Geralt knows no one else who is both rich and sympathetic enough to take in an injured witcher like him. That’s the only explanation he can think of for his luxurious surroundings.

Then he takes in the rest of the room, feeling more and more overwhelmed as he does. _This is a bit much even for Yen_. A deep green wallpaper with a delicate pattern of golden swirls covers the walls. The curtains— a dark, almost black shade of blue velvet— are closed, but they’re large enough that he can tell the windows they conceal should let in plenty of light when open. A wall-to-wall carpet depicting some sort of hunting scene covers the floor. Even the furniture, all of it carefully upholstered, looks old and expensive. Geralt quirks a brow. The sheets rustle as he sits up fully.

“Ah!” He inhales sharply as his stomach gives a nasty twist and his head spins at the sudden altitude adjustment. _If I’m not at Yen’s place, then where—_ Geralt can’t remember. He can’t remember anything. It’s obvious that he was fighting something, _a manticore_ , he recalls abruptly, because even now, an indeterminable time after the fight, he still feels weak and exhausted. But the witcher’s unease and concern over his mysterious surroundings beat out the exhaustion. His instincts are shouting that something isn’t right. Slowly, he pushes back the covers and scoots to the edge of the bed.

Geralt stands, immediately clutching the nearest bedpost to steady himself when his left calf tweaks painfully and his head spins again, ears ringing. _Why am I so weak?_ The witcher almost thinks that his symptoms match those that follow taking too many potions. But if he’d overdosed on potions, then he’d be dead now. It’s as simple as that. He closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and lets it go. Since he’s alive and seemingly on the mend, what exactly _caused_ his injuries is unimportant now.

 _If I get to the window, I can see if I recognize where I am_. The witcher grits his teeth, pushes away from the bedpost with a grunt, and hobbles towards his intended destination. Geralt slams one palm against the wall to avoid falling down once he reaches the curtains. He frowns. With a slightly trembling hand, he reaches out for one of the curtains and pulls it back. There is nothing but more intricately decorated wall behind it. Geralt blinks, and freezes. A sense of wrongness rushes up his spine.

**• ~ * ~ •**

_Why are there no windows?_ is, embarrassingly, his first thought after the startling revelation. The witcher’s brow furrows. After a second of deliberation, Geralt leans against the wall again. It doesn’t matter how robust he looks at the moment, as no one else is here. For now, he’s better off conserving energy. Then he starts considering if there’s another way to figure out where he is.

The witcher knows that this can’t be Yennefer’s house— either of them. First of all, she wouldn’t leave him alone when he’s this injured. And he is hurt, badly; evidenced from how exhausting standing upright currently is. Secondly, although he hasn’t seen every room in the sorceress’ larger home, the décor here doesn’t match her style. So it’s also not Yen’s smaller city-house in Gors Velen. Geralt frowns again, racking his brain for any other possibilities. Despite himself, tendrils of panic are beginning to creep their way into his mind. The longer he stands here, the more ill at ease he feels.

Geralt has never dealt well with losing control or being threatened.

“What do I know?” he mutters aloud. _I was fighting a manticore, and something went wrong. But what—_ Jaskier. Yes, now that he’s thinking about it, he remembers the fae was there. They had gone out to hunt, to get away from the others staying at Kaer Morhen. But this is not the keep, and the witcher has no idea how far from it he currently is because of the lack of windows. That feels like a deliberate oversight, given how attentively the space has otherwise been decorated. It also increases his concern about the motives of whoever brought him here. Then there’s the fact that Jaskier is nowhere to be found. He knows that the fae would never leave him alone and injured if he had a choice. Geralt’s sense of foreboding ratchets up.

Then his stomach rumbles, and the witcher frowns. _Well, that’s not right, I just ate—_ Geralt recalls the taste of sweet nectar. He goes cold. _No_. “He didn’t.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

The witcher slides down the wall, and tucks his head between his knees, feeling dizzy. Overwhelmed. He _remembers_ now. Jaskier had— he’d— “Geralt!”

He jolts as a pair of cool hands run over his sides, and one eventually cups his cheek, gently bringing his head up. He blinks, and it’s with a vague feeling of detachment that he realizes it _is_ Jaskier kneeling before him. Which means that they aren’t being held prisoner here. Or at least that the fae isn’t. Speaking of Jaskier: there’s a faint frown on his face, and he still hasn’t removed his hand from Geralt’s cheek. This close, he sees the lingering signs of sleeplessness in Jaskier’s face. His gaze briefly meets the witcher’s and then roves over him, searching for injury.

“How are you feeling?” the fae asks softly, releasing him.

Geralt stares, uncomprehending for a moment. _How am I **feeling**? _It seems an absurd question, both too large and all-encompassing as well as too quaint, deceptively simple. In other words: impossible to answer. He feels everything at once, and nothing. “I—” _I should be dead, shouldn’t I?_ The witcher sighs suddenly, as he senses the conversational precipice he’s standing on. _Careful_. Apprehension rises inside him as he considers his next words cautiously. But he has to know. Even if the heavy weight in his gut tells him he already has the answer. “Where are we, Jaskier?”

The fae’s expression darkens momentarily, and his heart respondingly leaps into an uneasy beat. Then the emotional storm ceases, and Jaskier sighs. One hand comes up, but he hesitates. Their foreheads touch instead, and the witcher’s eyes briefly slip shut as he enjoys the moment. Then he shakes himself and pushes Jaskier away. The fae goes, rocking back on his heels, looking unhappy. But he doesn’t seem surprised by the rejection. He doesn’t seem surprised by _any_ of this.

“Tell me where we are,” Geralt says calmly.

“You shouldn’t be—”

“Tell me, Jaskier.”

The fae frowns sternly at him. “I will. But you shouldn’t be out of—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls.

The fae bites his lip, looking agonized. His shoulders slump and his eyes are downcast so that all the witcher sees are his long, long lashes. “This is my family home,” he mumbles. “In Faerieland.” Despite the sharp silence following his statement, Jaskier keeps his gaze averted.

Geralt jerks back. Despite the weary acceptance already filling his mind, the witcher still sounds shocked when he demands: “ _What?_ ”

Jaskier nods briskly, and then all traces of apologetics vanish from his body language. “You were— hurt. Coming here was the only way I could think of to save you.” The witcher blinks, about to say something else, to ask for clarification, or even offer an objection, but the fae speaks again, and his words hold magic: “ _Now come to bed_.” Muddle-headed, Geralt finds himself lurching to his feet— and is supported by Jaskier when he stumbles. They slowly walk back to the bed. “ _Sit_ ,” Jaskier commands.

Geralt shakes his head, resisting the magic. “Jaskier, I—”

“ _Sit_. Please.”

Geralt complies, feeling more and more alarmed by the fae’s behavior. “What—”

Jaskier’s expression is stern, but there’s nothing he can do about the gentle sadness that fills his eyes. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I’m so sorry. _Please lie down_.”

With a jerk, Geralt feels himself obey, finding that Jaskier has already pulled back the covers. He comes back to himself after he’s lying down. “I don’t understand—”

The fae’s trembling, pursed lips shut him up. Jaskier’s shoulders have slumped, and a sense of dejectedness pours from his posture. He sighs, then clears his throat. And eventually, the fae speaks: “Marx’s monster would have— _was_ killing you. I couldn’t let that happen, Geralt, because I—” he grimaces, closing his eyes briefly as his face takes on a terrible, twisted expression. “This was the only way to keep you safe, otherwise I never would have brought you here.” He meets the witcher’s watchful gaze. “I’ll explain further after you get some more rest.”

Geralt frowns, not really seeing any way he can effectively argue against the not-quite suggestion. And he _is_ tired. But he also can’t leave it like this. “I’ll hold you to that,” the witcher says seriously.

Jaskier bites his bottom lip and offers a small, rueful smile. “Understandable… now please, rest.”

He’s not quite sure if there’s any magic in the statement, but Geralt’s eyelids flutter shut anyway, and then he’s asleep.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The next time he wakes up, the witcher is a good deal calmer than before. But he is no less confused. Geralt sits up in bed, frowning. It’s impossible to tell what time it is— and any remote chance he may have had of guessing has been ruined both by his most recent bout of unconsciousness as well as by the otherworldly, magical nature of his current location. He has not forgotten that he is in Faerieland.

“Oh! You’re awake.”

Geralt startles, grimacing slightly. He looks up and meets Jaskier’s inquisitive, slightly apprehensive gaze. The fae is sitting in one of the corner armchairs across the room. Absently, he notes how _strange_ it is to see Jaskier without his lute. Shoving the thought aside, he clears his throat. Then the witcher asks awkwardly, “Did you stay there the whole time?”

Jaskier colors slightly. Ordinarily, he might think it quite captivating. Not so much now. “No, I did _not_ , thank you very much.” Then after a slight pause, he asks, “How do you feel?”

The witcher takes stock. He’s already feeling better than the last time he was awake, less like he’s been poisoned. Or in this case, stabbed in the leg by a Manticore’s venomous tail-stinger. While his bitten shoulder and damaged arm are still a source of discomfort, given his memories of what they had looked like before, Geralt is surprised that it hurts as little as it does. But he’s withholding judgment until he’s able to hold a sword again. However, since he still doesn’t know the full situation, the witcher keeps it simple: “I’ll feel better once you tell me what’s going on.”

Jaskier’s eyes flutter closed briefly. He looks _tired_ again in that same, disturbing way he had earlier. Then the fae’s eyes reopen, and they flick to the bed. “May I?” The witcher hesitates briefly, thinks, _does it really matter if I say yes or no?_ and finally nods. Jaskier stands slowly, stretches, then crosses over to the bed and sits at Geralt’s blanket-covered feet. He asks, looking more solemn than he ever has before, “What do you remember?”

The witcher frowns. “I was staying at the keep with Yennefer and the others after things came to a head with Marx. You recently returned from… here. Before the Manticore attacked us, we were out hunting. Then I was fighting it, and—” he swallows, feeling the phantom shape of three deadly little words on his lips, the lingering taste of something otherworldly on his tongue. “I don’t remember anything after that… What did you _do_ , Jaskier? Why am I here?”

Jaskier’s expression could break the heart of even Emhyr var Emreis. He sucks in a ragged breath. The witcher averts his gaze, shoulders stiff and uncomfortable. Unsurprisingly, the fae hasn’t forgotten about his confession either. He just didn’t think that it’d affect him this much. The heavy silence stretches on, and Geralt uses it to study Jaskier’s tense profile, head swirling with numerous, unnamable emotions.

“You gave me something from Faerieland, didn’t you?” he asks eventually.

“Yes,” the fae admits softly.

Though he already knows the answer, the witcher still needs to hear it aloud. “How do I get home?”

“You can’t.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

As soon as the fae speaks, a tense, thick silence fills the room again. It’s enough that Geralt feels as if he’ll choke on it. Jaskier’s gaze is lowered, and he looks terribly upset. For once, the witcher doesn’t feel like comforting him. He’s too busy trying not to let the overwhelming and growing sense of dread curdling in his gut consume him. _No way home._ Because Jaskier, foolishly, nobly, stupidly, gave him food from Faerieland to save his life. Geralt closes his eyes briefly and works to suppress the sea of bitterness that’s threatening to drown all his senses. _You’ve got other things to worry about besides how you feel_ , he reminds himself. “Are we in any danger?”

The fae blinks as if surprised that the first thing out of his mouth after the devastating news he’s just received is not vitriolic or even upset, but _practical_. And of course he’s eager to comply with the request for information. “It’s… well, it’s a bit convoluted, and involves several ancient Courtly laws, but— the gist of it is that the taker is the guardian of whatever they have taken. Since I brought you here, you’re under my protection. Unless another fae _wants_ trouble, they can’t touch you.”

The witcher frowns— there is _a lot_ he could say about that, all of it. But Geralt has other questions. “How am I not dead?”

Jaskier flinches but recovers quickly. He lets out a long, slow breath. “Oh, bother, of course you’d want to know that… You’re familiar with the theory on how the spheres function, yes?” Geralt nods. “Right. Well, Faerieland is a bit strange, because the barriers between it and your world never closed off entirely, unlike the other spheres. But there’s enough of a— a disconnect, so to speak, that our power weakens in your world. If you hadn’t gotten such a large dose of venom, or if I wasn’t also hit with it, then my magic could have bought us enough time to get back to the keep.”

Geralt’s frown deepens. It’s a lot to take in, especially after just waking up, after nearly _dying_. He’s intelligent, true, but theoreticizing and fancy academic talk for its own sake have never been things he’s cared much for. “But it wasn’t. If I were to try to go back, what would happen?”

Jaskier frowns momentarily, then shrugs his shoulders. “Nothing.” Geralt glares at the non-answer. The fae sighs. He looks frustrated and apologetic. “I don’t mean to sound blasé about it, but that’s just how it works. Once someone partakes of a substance of this sphere, the barrier is impassible to them. They can’t leave.”

The witcher stares down at his hands, which are folded in his lap beneath the blankets, still feeling uncertain about the logistics of it all. But for now, it’s enough to know that he would be dead if Jaskier hadn’t acted. However, he still needs to clarify one more thing, crush one more lingering hope, before changing topics. “And if you were to… release me?”

The fae shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that, unfortunately. Once bound, _neither_ party can undo the process.” Then Jaskier sighs again and stares at him earnestly. In a small, quiet voice, he adds, “I would if I could, Geralt. I’m sorry.”

And at that, the confirmation that Geralt truly cannot go back, an odd numbness falls over the witcher. His head is buzzing. “I see.” The fae shifts slightly, and places a hand on top of his, and— oh. He’s shaking. The witcher flinches at the touch and blinks. He grits his teeth almost hard enough to hurt. _I’m angry_ , he realizes. In fact, Geralt is absolutely furious. _How dare he how dare he how dare he **how dare he HOW DARE** —_

“Geralt? Are you alright?”

“Get out.”

Silently, Jaskier complies.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Much later, as if through a thick fog, the witcher recalls what the sorcerer Val Istredd had said to him years ago when they were both vying for Yennefer’s affections. Geralt snorts. This is because he knows, with absolute certainty, that Istredd was wrong. His bitter amusement is also caused by the fact that it’s been years since he last saw or gave a shit about the sorcerer. What’s even funnier is that it’s been years since Yen cared about him either.

Ostensibly, he’s recovered from the incident, but Geralt will never forget Istredd’s calm and coolly hateful speech: _“You’re playing with words. You’re becoming intoxicated with them. You try to substitute words for normal, human feelings, which you do not have. Your words don’t express feelings, they are only sounds, like those that skull emits when you tap it. For you are just as empty as this skull_.” He’d been deadly serious, but the witcher hadn’t detected even a trace of mockery in his tone. The sorcerer had even been almost sympathetic about Geralt’s seeming inability to grasp that he— a mutated freak— did not, in fact, have ordinary human emotions but rather the echoes of them.

 _‘Cellular somatic memory,’_ he recalls suddenly _. Yes, that’s the term Istredd created for my supposed condition_. The sorcerer had thought him nothing more than a pale imitation of a man, both physically as well as internally, with regard to the substance that made up a person’s self: their soul. And that that was only natural— ironically— because Witchers are perfectly _unnatural_ beings, engineered to harness the power and possibility of science and magic combined.

That cool hatred hadn’t scared him, nor does it in retrospect. At the time, it had infuriated him. Despite Istredd’s ability to _see_ how his words affected Geralt, despite his power to— if he so wished— inspect the witcher’s very mind, the sorcerer had been so sure of his logic and confident in his scientific reasoning that he was blinded to the truth. That had been a very valuable lesson for Geralt. He’s since faced many other forms of bias, but that encounter had shown him what kind of people to avoid categorically: the ones who hide their hatred behind ‘logic’ and twist their words prettily in order to justify doing pretty much anything, at least to themselves.

But that’s not why Geralt thinks of Istredd now, nor why he recalls his words. The witcher thinks back to the happenings at Aedd Gynvael because, fancifully, he almost wishes that the sorcerer had been right.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The following days pass in a gray blur of anger and despair. He’s still weak enough to be confined to bed rest, and after that passes the witcher still doesn’t leave his room. For one, he’s not sure if he’s even _allowed_ to, and he certainly doesn’t want to risk running into Jaskier again. Since his outburst, the fae hasn’t been back. Besides, Geralt has everything he needs here— there’s even an attached bathroom and wardrobe filled with clothing. Servants bring him food and water regularly too. Frankly, it’s a more decadent existence than what he’s seen at some of the castles of Human kings or queens. Someone even brings him leather-bound books to read. But Geralt hates it just the same.

The issue is that Jaskier made the decision for him.

It’s not that he wanted to die. If Geralt were allowed the luxury of choice, then he’d choose to come out of every fight victorious. But _no_ mortal has that option, not even sorcerers, not even witchers. Both know the risks that accompany their respective professions. _He’s_ always known that his life will most likely end on the Path. So while the witcher is not _unhappy_ to be alive per se, it still should have been his decision to make. Jaskier should have known that Geralt is first and foremost a witcher. He’s spent a long enough time accompanying him on various contracts across the Continent to have learned this, even if Geralt hadn’t lectured him on boundaries and expectations beforehand. The fae had _known_ that his job is dangerous and had had to accept that risk.

Another confusing factor in all of this is his love confession, made under very specific circumstances. Circumstances which are now irrelevant, and, in fact, make things exceedingly awkward for the witcher. A confession does not a relationship make, nor is it a cure-all for underlying problems; Gods does Geralt know that. Despite their mutual feelings, there are still things that he and Jaskier have not discussed. As much as the witcher doesn’t like to think about their differences, they are— quite literally— from two disparate worlds. This alone would have, did, make their relationship difficult. But slowly and with time, it could have worked. Recent events have changed things wildly. Here, in Faerieland, they are no longer equals.

It’s also confusing and a good deal upsetting because, despite his better intuition, Geralt’s words are still _true_. Underneath the anger, hurt, broken trust, he still loves Jaskier. But even if the fae says that he feels the same, the witcher wonders if it’ll matter. What is love without trust, after all? A part of him is glad for Jaskier’s lack of confession. He doesn’t know if he can forgive the fae, and if he confessed his love, any… negative outcomes would be even more painful. _Now I know how Eskel and Lambert must have felt_ , Geralt thinks humorlessly.

This thought is quickly followed by: _I’ll never see Eskel, Lambert, Vesemir, or— or Yen again_. Worse, the witcher doesn’t know if he’ll be able to contact them at all. Geralt knows that Jaskier would help him if he could, but he doesn’t know if the same magic which binds him here also prevents communication across the spherical divide. After all, there are no stories about people who’ve been abducted by the Fair Folk sending letters to their loved ones. It must look like he simply vanished, or something worse.

Being alive is not the same thing as living. Even if Yennefer and the others do figure out what happened, or he can communicate with them somehow, his family is unable to help him. Geralt knows that that will torture them. If he had died they would’ve at least had that closure. That is what being-alive-but-not-living means. And if that or death are his options, Geralt should have been able to choose. It was not Jaskier’s place to save him, by proxy dooming him to an eternal stay in a foreign, hostile land. It was not the fae’s decision to make— but he made it anyway.

So Geralt stews in his misery inside his ~~prison~~ room, filled with a hot mire of grief, uncertainty, and sadness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue borrowed from page 108 of the short story, “A Shard Of Ice” in Andrzej Sapkowski’s, _Sword of Destiny_.


	14. Reconcilliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After some time apart, Geralt and Jaskier finally come back together... with the help of someone new.

The witcher is sitting with his back against the wall— knees tucked to his chest with a book held loosely in one hand— when something unusual happens. One moment he’s busy ignoring the clank of dishware, the next he notices the eerie silence. His hackles raise. Geralt looks up.

It’s been eight days since his unwitting arrival here. So far, all of the servants— _Fay_ _servants_ , which is still a strange notion— have passed more or less silently through his room. Sometimes their gazes linger curiously, fearfully, or even sympathetically (and Geralt wonders just what Jaskier has told them). Some of the especially daring ones speak briefly to him.

At first, he’d been mildly disturbed at being in such close-quarters with strange Fay _unarmed_ , especially given Valdo Marx’s actions and Jaskier’s account of what the Court is like, but that hardly matters anymore since he’s stuck here. _Might as well get used to it_ , the witcher tells himself grimly. What’s odd about this time is that after the dishware has been set down, he doesn’t hear the fae servant _leave_. Geralt looks up.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The fae woman stands casually beside the now food-laden table. The dishes are either white porcelain with embellished borders or gold (the more traditional _silver_ wouldn’t exactly pass muster here), and his mouth, despite the situation, waters at the scent wafting from them. Geralt has a good— if not particularly refined— pallet which he’s been able to indulge more here than he normally would; Faerieland is by no means lacking in delicacies. But even as he slowly sets his book aside and shifts away from the wall, the woman doesn’t leave.

The witcher cautiously gets to his feet and keeps his posture relaxed. He briefly wonders if she has ulterior motives. While her tall, thin frame doesn’t look that strong, he’s fought enough deceptively dangerous opponents— monster or otherwise— to know better than to assume he can take someone in a fight. Especially not with Fay’s magic being enhanced in their own sphere.

The woman’s eyes are an unnaturally dark brown, so dark they’re nearly black, but warm. They gleam with curiosity or perhaps amusement. Any other emotions she may be feeling are skillfully concealed. Geralt studies her further.

Her narrow, sharp features are framed by straight shoulder-length hair. It’s a similar color to the woman’s eyes but even darker and is kept in place by one pewter hairpin. Like other Fair Folk, her ears are pointed and her nails sharp; they’re painted a deep red. The fae looks to be in her early forties which makes the witcher wonder about her true age; while Geralt’s never found out his _real_ age, Jaskier appears to be younger. Although her deep blue floor-length dress is unadorned and falls flatly against her body, it’s still an odd thing for a servant to wear.

Perhaps she’s of some importance.

That then begs the question: why is she here, playing barmaid? It makes his already present alarm increase. After all, the witcher doesn’t much like the idea of having to fight someone with nothing more than dishware and utensils. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s impolite to stare?” he drawls, feeling briefly surprised by the sound of his own voice, slightly hoarse from disuse.

It’s been a while since he spoke more than a few words to another living soul.

“I could say the same of you.” Her voice is disconcertingly rough for a woman— almost as if she had strained it at some point— but it still has that odd _smooth_ quality which all of the Fay’s voices have. She smiles. But it’s the kind of smile that he can tell is _supposed_ to look kind, reassuring. His hackles raise further.

“What do you want?” he asks.

The fae adjusts her dress matter-of-factly and arches a brow. “Not violence, if that’s your concern. I’ve heard most of the staff gossiping about the witcher whom Viscount Pankratz had acquired and wanted to meet you for myself.”

Geralt firmly ignores both the oddity of hearing Jaskier described as Viscount anything and his discomfort at the fact that he’s a source of gossip. Then the witcher frowns. For as many words as she’s said, he’s still not recieved an answer. “Well you’ve met me. Now what, an exchange of titles perhaps?” he asks, half seriously.

Something in the woman’s gaze shifts. She smiles faintly, but it looks much more genuine than before; or perhaps it’s just the lack of visible, sharp teeth. “I am Mirabella Lynn, or simply Mirabella. And you, white-hair?”

The witcher stares for a moment, searching her face for... something. He’s not sure what— sincerity, perhaps? But his instincts don’t react one way or another, so he answers the question: “Geralt of Rivia. Or just Geralt.” Then Geralt slowly sits at the table because he’s hungry and there’s no use in letting the food go cold. Not much he can do to defend himself if she attacks at this point either. He gestures at the empty chair across from him, but the fae shakes her head. He shrugs. “Well, if your curiosity’s been satiated…”

Mirabella takes the cue, and curtsies briefly. “For now. Enjoy your meal, Geralt.”

“Thanks,” he replies warily, watching the strange fae depart. For the first time in a while, he has something new to think about while he’s eating.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Over the next two days, the witcher keeps an eye out for Mirabella, but she doesn’t return. By this point, he’s half out of his mind with boredom. Geralt’s read two books already and is well on his way to finishing a third. Cautiously, he takes his first walk, immediately feeling daunted by the extravagance that surrounds him.

Even the hallway is impressive.

It’s a wide space with a high, arched ceiling. The warm light that filters through the windows draws his attention to the intricate carvings decorating the higher-up stone. Unfortunately, none of the windows are low enough for him to see out of, but he’ll take what he can get. The walk is depressingly uplifting. The witcher only receives mild stares from the few Fay who pass by and no rebukes.

 _Wonder just how large this place is_ , Geralt ponders. It’s certainly quiet enough. He misses his swords. He misses a lot of things…

He misses Lambert, who’d undoubtedly make sure it didn’t _stay_ quiet long around here.

He misses Eskel, who’d exchange fondly exasperated glances with him over their younger brother’s antics.

He misses Yen, who’d pretend not to be amused by them but would be despite herself.

He misses Vesemir, who’d gruffly remind Lambert (yet again) that it’s inappropriate for witchers to lose their heads in such a way.

 _Fuck it._ _I miss Jaskier too_ , he admits moodily.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Geralt is reading again when the door creaks open softly and he hears someone step into his room. The witcher looks up briefly from his book, then lowers it, trying not to appear overeager. Mirabella is standing just inside the doorway, holding a folded pile of clothing rather than the typical dishware. She seems to be in a good mood, but he’s unsure of that assessment. The fae is just about as far removed from Jaskier’s vivid emotional expressiveness as possible. The witcher shuts his book with a snap and stands.

Eyeing the clothes apprehensively, he asks, “Am I expected somewhere?”

Mirabella shuts the door softly and walks gracefully towards him. “You aren’t,” she replies simply.

Geralt feels a spark of frustration. It turns to confusion as the clothes are handed over and he has a chance to inspect them. As he does, his eyebrows climb steadily towards his hairline. _This is formalwear_. After another moment of study, the witcher frowns, then stares intently at the fae woman. “Explain.”

Mirabella stares back. “You aren’t expected anywhere, Geralt, but if you’re to continue wandering through the halls, you must be dressed appropriately. We wouldn’t want you disgracing the household, let alone Viscount Pankratz, after all.”

The witcher’s face darkens at the mention of Jaskier. He tries to focus on his anger rather than the hurt and longing which vie with it. “And what if I don’t give a fuck about disgracing Jask— the Viscount?” he demands.

“Whatever your quarrels with Viscount Pankratz are—”

“‘Quarrels,’” Geralt repeats indignantly, “is _that_ what he’s calling them? Not that you care, but your Viscount is the reason that I’m stuck here. He used his magic to save my life. I’m grateful, of course—” the witcher smiles nastily— “even if there were unexpected consequences.” 

Mirabella flinches, looking momentarily stricken as her eyes fill with sorrow. Then the expression vanishes, and her face becomes unreadable again. “Whatever your quarrels may be, Witcher,” she repeats, “they aren’t my concern. However, as head of household, _everyone’s_ conduct is my business. The Viscount’s… guests, even if they are outsiders, cannot afford to disregard propriety.” Something glitters in her eyes then, and he can’t honestly say that it’s entirely _benevolent_. “I’m sure Julian has informed you of his peculiar standing at Court, no?”

A long, uneasy silence follows that statement. The witcher’s jaw clenches as he wrestles with himself. _Yeah, Julian’s told me about his standing in Court. Didn’t think that mattered in his own home though…_ Geralt sighs, and the moment passes. He meets the fae’s eyes in a show of understanding. Much as he may be unwilling to admit it, Geralt still doesn’t wish to cause Jaskier misfortune, even indirectly. “He may have mentioned that.”

Mirabella’s face loses some of its harshness then. She glances down at the stack of books on the floor beside him. “Unless I’m mistaken, a trip to the library would be welcome. I can take you there once you’ve changed.”

For some Gods-forsaken reason, Geralt agrees: “Alright.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Mirabella glances up at him as he leaves his room, but doesn’t comment on his appearance. The witcher is grateful for that. Whenever Geralt is forced to dress up, he feels extremely out of place and this time is no different. It’s worse, actually, given the Fair Folks’ easy grace, refined fashion sense, and unearthly beauty. Atop that, this is a _noble_ household— even if it’s only Jaskier’s— so their standards are probably higher. By comparison he must seem an aged ass among thoroughbred horses. At least no one he knows is around for the spectacle.

As they turn a corner and enter unexplored territory, Geralt grimaces. _I’m never going to remember how to get back_. The last thing he wants is to have to ask someone for directions later. But he’ll deal with that problem when he has to... After several more minutes of walking, they stop at a large pair of wooden doors with decoratively twisted metal handles.

“Here we are. Hopefully you’ll find something inside that interests you,” the fae says briskly.

Once again, the witcher doesn’t know whether to feel more confused or grateful for her terse assistance. “Thanks.”

Mirabella inclines her head slightly, then turns and walks away.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The library is large and quiet. It smells faintly of old books, something floral, and, of course, magic. Although the décor is far more understated than the other areas he’s seen so far it’s still elegant. A maroon runner with a pattern of green ivy lining its sides covers most of the hardwood floor. Wide brown wooden bookshelves, also tall, take up most of the rest of the space. While they don’t quite reach the ceiling, each is still equipped with sliding brass ladders.

“Impressive,” Geralt mutters to himself. And then he hears a lute being gently strummed.

**• ~ * ~ •**

After the strumming starts, a soft male voice begins singing. He can’t quite make out individual words, but based on tone— and the weighty lute-melody— it’s something sad. Geralt sighs quietly and ducks around a corner. He crosses his arms, leans against a shelf, and stares up at a distant window.

 _Well you can’t avoid him forever_ , advises a practical, Vesemir-like voice in his head. While he has complicated feelings about Jaskier’s decision, the fae had made it with good intentions. He _cares_ for Geralt, has proven this over and over by risking his own status, if not life, for his sake. And if the witcher is going to be stuck here forever he might as well make his indefinite stay more pleasant.

**• ~ * ~ •**

He’s not quite sure how far away Jaskier is, so he simply heads towards the music. Eventually Geralt rounds a corner and sees Jaskier sitting at a round table, back to him. There’s something slightly _odd_ about his profile which the witcher can’t place momentarily, until he does. _He’s in his Human form_. For some reason, this makes something soft flutter in the witcher’s stomach. He squashes it down harshly.

Then Geralt clears his throat awkwardly.

“Ah!” Jaskier jumps and his eyes widen comically as he spins around. The lute’s strings twang discordantly. If he hadn’t already had the instrument’s strap thrown over his shoulder, the bard would have dropped it. Interestingly, his glamour ripples for a moment, teeth becoming alarmingly sharp, cheekbones jutting out. His face resettles.

“Geralt! You scared me.” Jaskier inhales softly, gaze searching, and his words sound as if they’ve been plucked just as carefully as his lute strings have. “What are you doing here?”

For a moment, the witcher feels struck dumb, and his heart gives an odd twist as all of Jaskier’s attention falls on him. The silence swells and the feeling intensifies— it’s rather like he’s been hit over the head, after such a long time of not being around the other man. Geralt thinks again: _I’ve missed him_.

As one of Jaskier’s eyebrows begins to creep up at his prolonged silence, he forces himself to offer up an explanation. “One of your staff— Mirabella— brought me here. I was running out of things to read,” he says dryly. It comes out more stiffly than he’d intended, and by the way Jaskier’s eyes dim, this doesn’t escape the fae’s notice.

“I see.” Jaskier’s hands tap silently at the front of his instrument as his eyes dart over the witcher’s form. “That would also explain your unusual attire— not that it doesn’t suit you! Actually, I think you look rather—”

“The point, Jaskier?”

“Right… Mirabella is my Majordomo. She’s always been keen on order and appearances and is rather loyal too. My father hired her after accepting his Court position. He wanted someone with ‘common sense’ here to keep track of things. I would be offended, but frankly he’s right. And Mirabella’s done a wonderful job. All in all a rare find for a family of our standing.” The bard offers him an awkward grin.

Geralt continues to stand there stiffly, feeling foolish and almost certain that he’ll make a mess of things. He doesn’t appreciate that feeling. _You started this_ , he reminds himself forcefully. But the witcher isn’t sure what he wants to say. What he’s even feeling. Everything is topsy-turvy and his whole existence has been flipped on its head.

Mostly because of the man before him.

“I—” he closes his eyes briefly and sighs. Geralt reopens them to see that Jaskier’s head is cocked slightly, blue eyes warm as a summer’s day.

When the fae sees that he has the witcher’s attention, he smiles gently. Something about it makes Geralt feel almost breathless. “Would you like to sit down so we can talk?”

He nods mutely and moves forward to do just that.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Geralt, mindful of his delicate clothing, sits carefully. He leans forward, rests his arms on his thighs, clasps his hands, and inspects his surroundings. The mid-afternoon sunlight creates bright spots on the walls and across the floor. Jaskier’s side of the table is strewn with various creative materials: his notebook, a loosely lidded jar of ink, his still-wet quill, several unbound sheets of parchment, and a stack of books. The bard stays quiet, knowing the witcher well enough to understand that he’s busy collecting his thoughts.

It’s a small but meaningful consideration that makes Geralt’s chest ache.

Finally, the witcher looks up. He opens his mouth and promptly loses his train of thought at the earnest expression on Jaskier’s face, the nearly unblinking attention of his eyes. That familiar blue is like a drug, drawing him into pleasant distraction. “Fuck, Jaskier—” Geralt rubs a hand over his face and sighs. _Damn this whole situation_. He looks back at the bard, whose expression is now carefully controlled and posture rigid.

The witcher stares for a moment longer, mind spinning. He decides to start with the easiest thing first: “Is there a way for me to get a message to Yennefer? I’d like to let her and the others know that I’m alive.”

Jaskier looks surprised briefly. “Of course. We can do that right away if—”

“Good.” Geralt feels immensely relieved but keeps his expression controlled. He unclasps his hands and sits back in the chair. He’s finally figured out what he wants to say. “Do you remember our conversation before the Werewolf contract about you helping me?” Jaskier nods. “And our discussion about trust and yo-yos while we were helping Katarzyna?” The bard nods again, wariness increasingly evident on his face.

Geralt pauses. But he’s given this a lot of thought— what _else_ is he supposed to have been doing with all this fucking time on his hands?— and has determined what’s bothering him.

“Well I feel that this is similar. To paraphrase: you trust me— _to a point_. You say you trust me enough not to get killed yet can’t accept the inherent risks of my profession. You trust me to go out on contracts alone, but only because you know that I won’t allow you to solve all my problems with magic. _Finitione_ , you respect my ability to make my own choices, but not really,” the witcher explains.

Jaskier’s eyes flash in an odd mixture of sorrow and anger. No, not anger. Rage. When the bard bites his lip, his teeth are sharp. “That’s not fair! It’s easy enough for you to make a pretty speech about trust and- and autonomy, Geralt. But you were **_dying_**! Did you honestly expect me not to—”

“You’re right. It’s not fair. And we should’ve had this conversation a long time ago…” Geralt trails off, frowning sharply. He closes his eyes and sighs. _Fuck, this is the same problem Yennefer and I had_.

“But we didn’t, and that’s on _both_ of us. I shouldn’t have gotten involved with you without clearing things up first; I’m sorry for that. But Jaskier, you have to understand that I’m mortal. I’m a _witcher_ for fuck’s sake. Like it or not, I was always going to die at some point. Not saying that I’m unappreciative of what you did, but... Us being together doesn’t give you the right to _change_ things. It wasn’t your decision to make.”

“And yet, here we are,” the bard replies. Jaskier’s glistening eyes dart down to the table and the still-open notebook sitting there. He studies it with feigned interest. Geralt waits.

When Jaskier looks up, his gaze is guarded but steady. Although the bard’s hands are concealed beneath the table he doesn’t doubt that they’re clenched into fists. “During the Manticore fight, you said… you said you loved me— and fuck, I know that things have changed. _Obviously_ they have. But I need to know if you still feel that way. Because I love you, Geralt, I really do, and I want this to work. But I understand if—”

“I do.” Geralt stares at Jaskier, feeling as if his chest is being crushed by a Rock Troll. “Gods, Jaskier, I love you. But this isn’t my world. I don’t know if I can handle the imbalance that it will cause. Or how I can be certain that you’ll respect my boundaries.” He closes his eyes and supports his head in his hands.

The witcher is tired. So, so tired.

Love is a shard of ice, but what happens after the supposedly invulnerable heart’s been pierced?

What happens when the mortal lover reaches his sweetheart’s ice palace and _settles_ there?

He doesn’t know, because in all the fairytales and storybooks the monster doesn’t get a happy ending and the mutant never falls in love. They are operating in new and terrifyingly uncharted territory. _Guess some things don’t change_ , Geralt thinks morosely, picturing Vesemir’s lecture on the subject: _“Boy, if you always choose the hardest path it’ll inevitably lead you to the most unpleasant destinations_. _”_ He laughs, because fuck if the old witcher isn’t right.

A gentle, cool touch startles him out of his thoughts.

Geralt blinks. Jaskier is now sitting next to him, perched on the edge of his seat. He looks down and sees that one of the bard’s hands is pressed gently against his forearm. Jaskier smiles delicately. His eyes are warm but also sad. The witcher suddenly wants to kiss him, very badly in fact, but holds himself back. Now’s not the time. He blinks again and attempts a return smile.

“Would you be interested in a tour of the old place?” Jaskier asks quietly.

 _Gods know I could use the distraction._ “I think I’d like that.” Geralt’s smile is more genuine this time.

**• ~ * ~ •**

_It’s probably a good thing that I’m with Jaskier_ , the witcher decides after a while. He’s not sure if the fae has noticed the looks they’re getting (or rather that _he_ is getting) but it makes Geralt wonder what would happen if he were to wander about on his own; ducking out of his room briefly is one thing and deliberately exploring is another. However nothing comes of it, so the witcher does his best to focus on what Jaskier is saying instead. Might as well get to know something about this place.

The fae shows him the formal living room, dining room, ballroom— all massive and nearly overwhelming with their bursting decorative details. There’s also a study, a smaller sitting room, the other guest bedrooms, a greenhouse, a partially-detached bathhouse (which he may or may not make use of at some point), and a portrait room. The portrait room is eerie, both because Jaskier strongly resembles his ancestors, and since the paintings are styled similarly to those in noble or royal households, yet their subjects are Fay. Save for one.

“That’s my great grandfather,” Jaskier tells him quietly.

Geralt nods, stepping forward to take a closer look. The man depicted has the same Pankratz eyes but his are _warm_. Like Jaskier, he’s a brunette but his hair is lighter, almost blonde. His Human heritage is clearer in other ways too: a softer, rounder face, crow’s feet by his smiling eyes, lines around his mouth. He can’t be more than fifty— young for a fae, but not for a Human. The blonde-brown hair is silvered at the temples and his beard is also streaked with gray. All in all, he looks far more like an older version of Jaskier’s Human glamour than he resembles Jaskier in his natural form.

The witcher looks away from the portrait to see that Jaskier is watching him. For some reason, the fae seems to be waiting to hear what he thinks. Geralt considers his response for a moment. “He looks like you do in your Human glamour.”

Jaskier smiles, conspiratory mirth filling his eyes. “I used him as inspiration for it.”

They lapse into silence, standing shoulder to shoulder as they gaze up at the portrait once more. Something soft and warm fills Geralt’s middle. Knowing that the fae is distracted, he allows himself to smile. After all, he is enjoying himself. 

Then Jaskier turns to him and asks, “Would you like to see the rose garden?”

“Why not.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

The rose garden is located in a large courtyard at the manor’s center. It essentially divides the building into two wings. Like everything else here, the garden has an organizing design: rows of rose bushes are arranged in a series of eight square beds, linked by a gravel path and a stone one around its perimeter. There’s also a fountain in the middle and two benches at opposite corners. It’s refreshingly minimal, and Geralt appreciates the roses’ monochromatic color pallet, the velvety look of their petals. They’re a relief to his eyes.

He and Jaskier are the only ones present. For once the fae allows a prolonged silence to grow between them. But it’s not uncomfortable. The gravel crunches under their feet as they meander through the space. Absently, the witcher wonders about the meaning behind the roses’ deep pink color. He knows that every flower has a different significance, but what these ones symbolize, he’s not sure.

Eventually, they reach the middle of the garden and stop in front of the fountain, watching it babble for a moment. Then Jaskier turns to him, and somehow the witcher already knows exactly what the fae is going to say. He holds up a hand. Jaskier shuts his mouth, staring anxiously at him. Geralt clears his throat, then speaks slowly: “I don’t want to give you up, Jaskier.”

“I’m relieved to hear it, but I sense there’s more to it than that?” the fae prods gently after he’s been silent for too long.

Geralt smiles slightly in acknowledgment. Then his expression turns serious and a bit wary. “There is. I have some… rules to put in place before we move forward. One: don’t use your magic— even healing— on me without permission. Two: if there’s danger, no more of this overprotective shit. We’ll tackle the problem _together_. Three: no secrets. At least not about important matters.”

Jaskier studies the fountain thoughtfully, running a hand through his hair. “What if you’re unconscious?” he asks suddenly.

The witcher blinks, feeling a dizzying rush of hope. _That isn’t a no_. He thinks it over. “In that case, it’s your decision. Anything else?”

As a smile spreads across Jaskier’s face, Geralt feels his heartbeat quicken. Even the fae’s sharp teeth can’t disguise the expression for what it is: relief. Then Jaskier steps forward, hesitating before him. Geralt inclines his head slightly and allows the fae to cup his cheek in one hand. His other hand comes to rest at the small of his back, gently pulling the witcher closer. He goes with a sharp inhalation.

“No, nothing else,” Jaskier murmurs. “That all sounds perfectly reasonable. I’ll do my best to be worthy of your trust from here on out.”

Geralt smiles softly, and as the fae leans in for a kiss he rests his hands on Jaskier’s hips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly wasn’t sure about posting this chapter today. But it was comforting for me to work on it, and I thought that it might be comforting for people to have a distraction. 
> 
> I’ve often been disappointed in my country. But today I’m just sad. I’m also angry that we continue to allow ourselves to be consumed by white supremacy and hatred. This was not a protest or even a riot, but domestic terrorism. Can’t believe I have to say this, but: fascism is bad. Support Black Lives Matter, defund the police (and by doing so _**refund**_ social services such as better mental health care), and stay safe. Take care of yourself mentally and physically. Check up on your friends. 
> 
> No Shame On U mental health links- U.S. in case you need them <3\. 
> 
> One line borrowed from the show. You’ll know where. 
> 
> [Mirabella](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/e02c4943-76b5-48c8-82ed-73c764eef8db/debujvf-e246d4bd-500b-4475-b9cd-75c74d867bd8.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOiIsImlzcyI6InVybjphcHA6Iiwib2JqIjpbW3sicGF0aCI6IlwvZlwvZTAyYzQ5NDMtNzZiNS00OGM4LTgyZWQtNzNjNzY0ZWVmOGRiXC9kZWJ1anZmLWUyNDZkNGJkLTUwMGItNDQ3NS1iOWNkLTc1Yzc0ZDg2N2JkOC5qcGcifV1dLCJhdWQiOlsidXJuOnNlcnZpY2U6ZmlsZS5kb3dubG9hZCJdfQ.rwYDQ1TjHylZhjW6SS_2AZYz_2HcGQqNx4ezIEzybwU).


	15. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier readjust to their new normal. The witcher finds that he doesn’t actually hate every aspect of living in Faerieland. He also manages to communicate with everyone back home for the first time, and Yennefer replies to his note. Unsurprisingly, the sorceress is none too happy with either him or the fae.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI this chapter is a bit steamier (in the bathhouse section specifically). No body parts/acts overtly mentioned, of course, but I just thought you all should know.

That evening, they eat together for the first time since he, Jaskier, and Yennefer were in Gors Velen at the sorceress’s second home. The knowledge is startling and makes Geralt long for those simpler times. It’s also reminiscent of their stay in the city because they’re waited on (unnecessarily, in the witcher’s opinion) by several servants. Dinner is a quiet affair, and he tugs on his collar, uncomfortable in the semi-formal setting. The fae notices this but seems unsure how best to bring it up. So instead, he shoots Geralt concerned glances throughout their meal, frowning slightly. The concern is sweet, if unnecessary. All in all, the witcher finds that he’s enjoying himself.

The food is good too, which helps.

Eventually, they finish eating and the servants remove their empty plates. They return with a fine bottle of wine. Jaskier politely dismisses their waitstaff and pours them both a generous serving. Geralt accepts it with a slight smile. He sips slowly, appreciating the beverage’s smooth, fruity flavor. _Wonder how this compares to Toussaint’s reds_. The clearing of a throat drags Geralt from his thoughts. His gaze snaps to the fae, who, the witcher now notices, is studying him. Jaskier seems to be a bit apprehensive, but also happy. His hands are folded loosely in front of him, resting on the table.

“Enjoying yourself?” the fae asks.

Geralt nods slowly. “This isn’t my usual thing, but tonight’s been… nice. Good wine too.” He raises his glass in a slightly-teasing toast and drinks. Jaskier observes this silently. His face still bears that odd dualistic expression. As their eyes meet again, it intensifies. _He looks like a merchant who’s just sold the last of his wares, only to be told that his house has burnt down_. “What?”

“I missed this,” the fae admits softly.

The witcher is unprepared for such a statement. Perhaps that’s why he confesses: “I did too.”

They both fall silent then, equal parts surprised and expectant, waiting for the other to speak. Jaskier, predictably, breaks first.

“We could do this again, you know… Despite what Mirabella says, you don’t _have_ to dress up. We wouldn’t even need to eat in this room if you don’t—”

Geralt holds up a hand, smiling. The fae quiets. “As I said, I’ve enjoyed myself tonight, Jaskier. Though I might take you up on the offer of no formalwear. I feel like a boar that got tangled in the barmaid’s laundry,” the witcher says, chuckling to himself with amusement from the image. Jaskier, however, doesn’t laugh along. Instead, when he looks up, the fae is staring at him intently.

Jaskier’s mouth twists as if he’s upset by the witcher’s self-deprecating comment, and there’s an intense gleam in his eyes. The fae’s overall expression is… difficult to parse, but he’d hazard that there’s some longing in it. Jaskier wets his lips and clears his throat, breaking the agitated silence. “You don’t look it,” he says, voice sounding a little strained. In this too large, too ornate, too empty room it’s also unnervingly intimate. “In fact, I think you look rather… charming.”

The witcher suddenly wants to shiver, feeling as if he’s flushing slightly. Geralt shifts in his seat. “Thanks,” he replies lowly, going for another drink of wine as he finds himself unexpectedly dry-mouthed. “I think you look rather _charming_ too.”

Jaskier cackles. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.” His eyes are mirthful and enchanting, pulling him in like a strong tide.

“Yeah,” Geralt agrees dazedly, “glad we are.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Either he’s a little drunk, flustered from all the flirting, or _both_ , but the witcher finds himself stumbling out of the dining room several hours later, mind stuffed full and spinning. Okay, so definitely drunk then. What the hell is in that wine to make it so strong? _Probably more fucking magic_ , Geralt thinks, snorting exasperatedly. He shakes his head, frowning at his surroundings as he tries to recall the way to his room. The fae had offered to escort him, but he’s sure it was a conveniently self-serving overture.

As the wine bottle had continued to empty, Jaskier had moved nearer. At first, he’d merely seated himself on the same side of the table as Geralt, then progressively shifted closer, so subtly that the witcher almost hadn’t noticed. Until, one moment, he blinked and practically had a lap-full of the fae. Not that he’d protested _that_ development. Alas, Geralt had had to turn Jaskier down, albeit with great reluctance. “Need t’write Yen,” he’d muttered, shaking off the fae’s hand which had been petting his hair distractingly.

“Wan me t’come with you?” Jaskier had murmured into his ear.

Repressing a shiver, Geralt shook his head. “Mm, no. Need to… be able’t concentrate. Think ’bout th best way to tell her what’s happened.”

“Alright,” the fae had sighed, letting him go reluctantly.

Finally, Geralt spots familiar scenery and follows it to his room. Once inside, the witcher divests himself of the hated clothing, only taking enough care to ensure that nothing tears, and no buttons pop off. Then he splashes his face with cool water, changes into a more comfortable outfit, and ties his hair back. After finding some parchment, ink, and a quill, he moves the table.

Geralt dips the quill into the ink and then hesitates. With a frown, he stares thoughtfully at nothing in particular until he’s startled by the feeling of something wet dripping onto his hand. The witcher looks down and curses, “Shit.” There’s a splotch of ink on his hand. _Should probably get started before I make any more of a mess_ , Geralt thinks. He doesn’t want to lose his nerve either. So, mouth pursed in concentration, he begins writing.

**• ~ * ~ •**

_Dear ~~Yennefer~~ _ **_Yen_** _,_

 _ ~~Guess what?~~ **I’m alive**. I know this ~~will probably be shocking is surprising~~ _ **_is unexpected_** _, but it’s news I’m happy to share. Sorry for any awkwardness, I’m a little drunk; they have strong wine in Faerieland— might even be more potent than Toussaint’s. Sorry I didn’t write sooner, too; wasn’t sure if I even could. ~~Don’t be mad.~~ Anyway: I’m alive, Jaskier’s here, and we’re both well. Or at least I am now. Valdo Marx wasn’t as defeated as we’d thought. Sent an enchanted Manticore after me, attacked us while we were hunting, and I wasn’t prepared for it. Would be dead now if the fae hadn’t acted… _

_Which leads to my ~~main problem issue conundrum?~~ _ **_current predicament_** _. The only way Jaskier could save me was by bringing me to Faerieland. To do that, well, you can probably guess how it happened. Wasn’t exactly pleased myself when I figured it out. But all things considered, I’m not too poorly off. The fae’s status as a Viscount means that I’m being put up in luxury. You’d like it here, I think._

 _I would appreciate it if you’d let my brothers and Vesemir know that I’m ~~not dead~~_ **_alright_** _, and also that they shouldn’t blame Jaskier for this. Thanks._

 _Hope to ~~here~~ _ **_hear_ ** _from you soon._

_Sincerely,_   
_Geralt_

Satisfied with what he’s written, the witcher seals the note in an envelope, scrawls Yen’s name on it, and sets it aside to be delivered come morning. Then he slips into bed and falls asleep.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“Eskel! Lambert!” Both witchers react— in retrospect embarrassingly— quickly to Yennefer’s shout, running to her side. The sorceress stands dramatically before the main hall’s fireplace. It outlines her black dress and dark hair with a faint orange glow. One hand is on her hip, the other clutches a piece of parchment. Her lips are pursed, trembling slightly, and her eyes gleam.

“What is it?” Eskel demands. Yennefer rarely gets this emotional so there has to be a reason for her current upset.

“Read this,” she orders, passing him the parchment.

Eskel’s breath stutters as he takes in the slightly-smeared ink. The faint smell of wine, and— _That’s_ ** _Geralt’s_** _hand_ … He barely notices Lambert stepping to his side and grabbing his hand to reposition it so he can see better. They read together silently.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The loud _crack_ and sudden maelstrom wake him. The witcher jerks upright in bed and throws off the covers, pulse thrumming. He lurches to his feet. Then Geralt blinks, half-thinking that he must still be asleep. _That’s a fucking portal_. Yennefer tumbles through it, slumping to her knees, shaking. Another moment later, the portal’s black nothingness disappears with an ear-popping abruptness.

Geralt is fixated on the scene before him. The sorceress has two large bags situated across her shoulders, dragging her exhausted frame closer to the floor until her face is pressed to it. At this, he snaps out of his stupor and rushes forward to help her. He places an arm around Yennefer’s waist as his other hand removes the bags. They’re heavy, even for him. Absently, the witcher wonders what they contain. “Are you okay?”

The sorceress takes a final, heaving breath, then uses his shoulder to pull herself up to her knees. She brushes her disarrayed hair out of her too pale, sweat-dampened face and stares at him. As Yen recovers, he takes a moment to inspect her more closely: the fabric of her dress is torn in several places or missing entirely— as if it’s been ripped off by something. Which it has been. Geralt shudders internally. _Fucking portals_.

“I… could ask the same— of you,” Yen finally replies, voice cracking and breathy.

“I’m fine,” he says blankly.

Yen gives him a look. Then she pushes weakly off of him and gets to her feet. He allows the sorceress to move by herself but stays ready to catch her. Yen sways in place for a moment, then accepts his proffered arm. Geralt guides her to the bed, where she sits with a sigh. He looks around the room. The walls are intact and so is the furniture, if slightly out of place. Only the rug reveals what’s happened. It’s singed and reeks of powerful magic. He shudders again.

Then Geralt realizes that Yen’s been studying him as he inspects their surroundings. He blinks, gaze flickering to her abandoned bags and back. “Do you need anything from those?”

“My waterskin in the nearest bag, please,” Yen replies. He stands hastily to retrieve it. The sorceress takes a few measured sips, then sighs. She’s regained some of her color, Geralt’s relieved to see. “Thank you.” Yen recaps the waterskin and sets it carefully by her foot.

The witcher, still standing before her, brushes a hand awkwardly through his hair. “What’re you doing here, Yen?”

“I came to rescue you,” she answers succinctly, rubbing her eyes. “And next time, hold off on the alcohol before writing any letters.”

He feels faintly embarrassed. “I’ll keep that in mind. But how—” a pounding at the door cuts Geralt off. He answers it, revealing a wide-eyed, panicky Jaskier. The fae nearly barrels into the witcher in his rush to get inside. Geralt finds himself playing catch again as the other man stumbles. He grabs Jaskier’s arm to steady him. The fae doesn’t seem to notice, gaze roving over his form. Then Jaskier meets his eyes, brow furrowed. Geralt releases him.

“Is everything alright? I sensed a great deal of powerful magic coming from—”

“That would be me,” Yen interrupts. She gives Jaskier a cool look. “Won’t be a problem, I hope.”

The fae blinks, finally stepping away from Geralt. He looks momentarily nonplussed. “Well… no, of course not! But, Yennefer, what— _how_ are you here?”

The sorceress sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “That seems to be a popular topic at the moment... I’m here to rescue Geralt,” she scowls at the witcher, “ _again_.”

“He doesn’t _need_ rescuing!” The fae hisses.

Yen glowers darkly. If she weren’t so exhausted from her staggering feat of magic then he thinks that Jaskier might actually be in trouble. “That’s funny, because I rather think that being trapped in another sphere _by magic_ meets the definition of ‘perilous situation.’ And as I’m sure we both know, such situations require a rescue—”

“Oh, that’s rich—”

The witcher blinks, quickly becoming irritated by the bickering. _It’s as if I’m not even here_. “Hey!” The sorceress and fae’s gazes snap to him. Geralt takes a moment to breathe. “While I’m glad to see you, Yennefer, I don’t know what exactly you think you’ll be able to do here. Jaskier, calm down, please. I’m _sure_ Yen didn’t mean it,” he says, giving the sorceress a pointed look.

Yen glares back for a moment, then relents. She sighs, brushing back her hair again. “Fine. I’m sorry for implying you had any untoward motives, Jaskier. Clearly, you idiots are still as infatuated with one another as ever…” she stands, with much more poise than before, then crouches by one of her bags and pulls out a— a piece of jerky of all things. She devours it neatly. “And while we seem to have different views on the necessity of my presence here, that’s a discussion which can wait until later. I assume this place has more guest rooms than this one?”

Geralt and Jaskier stare at one another for a moment. The fae snaps out of it first, quickly replying, “It does. I’ll show you to one right now. Geralt, dear, strong witcher mine, if you’d please retrieve the lady’s bags?” He rolls his eyes, but obliges, wondering once more what the sorceress has brought with her to make them so heavy.

**• ~ * ~ •**

In the morning, Geralt runs into Mirabella and Yennefer as he’s walking down to breakfast. Both women look a bit wary of the other, though they try to hide it. Another source of amusement is that their outfits share a color scheme. Though the sorceress has a bag with her. Yen arches a brow when she sees him, and that’s when the witcher remembers what he’s dressed in. “What’s this?” she drawls, stepping closer to inspect him. Her hand traces over the decorative collar before dropping away. “I never thought I’d see the day when you _willingly_ wore formalwear, Geralt.”

His gaze moves to Mirabella, who meets it with subdued amusement. “Well, it’s not entirely my choice. Jaskier’s standing at Court is tenuous and I didn’t want to damage it further. Hence the outfit.”

The sorceress, sharp enough not to have missed the silent exchange, turns to the fae woman. “Did you use your powers to get him into that outfit?” she asks half-seriously.

Mirabella’s gaze narrows briefly before smoothing over. She snorts delicately. “I would hardly do such a thing to one of Viscount Pankratz’s honored guests. Nor, I suspect, would the witcher be very susceptible to it. In the brief time that he’s been here, I have already learned that stubbornness is a central element of his character.”

Yen laughs. The tension between the women dissipates. “You’re a quick study, Mirabella. I appreciate that.”

Mirabella inclines her head briefly. “Thank you, Yennefer. Now if you’d follow me, I believe breakfast awaits.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Jaskier is already seated when they arrive, resplendent in a robe and soft sleep pants though it isn’t particularly early. Geralt stares somewhat judgmentally. The fae just grins widely, standing when Mirabella and Yennefer enter the room. “Yennefer! I hope you’re feeling better?” he inquires. The sorceress seems momentarily indecisive whether she wants to snark back at him or not. But apparently, Jaskier’s sincerity wins her over and Yen opts for politeness… mostly.

“I am, thank you, Jaskier. Or should I call you Viscount? Viscount Julian Pankratz, of the esteemed land of— wherever we are.”

Jaskier grimaces at the mockery. “Please, Yennefer. For an _old_ friend like you, I need merely be addressed by title; Viscount will suffice.”

Yen bows, a perfect display of poise and courtly elegance. Somehow, it still seems insulting. “Very well, _Viscount_.”

Geralt steps forward and clears his throat. “If you two are finished,” he grumbles, fixing them both with a look, “I’m hungry and there’s a lot we need to catch up on.”

Jaskier relents with a nod, then turns to Mirabella, who’s been waiting by the door silently. “Mirabella,” he calls, “would you please have the sitting room prepared for us after breakfast?”

“Certainly, Sir.” The Majordomo bows and departs.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The presence of Yen’s bag is explained as breakfast begins. Once all the food’s been brought out, the sorceress sets the bag down on the chair beside her, and takes out… a biscuit, jerky, a pear, and a waterskin filled not with water but apple juice. Yennefer pours herself a full glass and sips from it delicately. Geralt barely represses a snort. She looks up from her meal to find them watching. “Where would we be if I were trapped here too?” she asks sharply.

“Fair enough,” he admits, returning to his meal.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“It’s impossible!” Jaskier exclaims frustratedly. His Human glamor slips, revealing sharp nails as he rakes a hand through his hair. “Don’t you think that I’d be doing everything I could to _help_ if it weren’t?”

They’ve settled into the sitting room, fire crackling merrily in the hearth before them. Yen has claimed the chaise lounge across from their armchairs. Although she’s reclining, the witcher’s keen eyes don’t miss the way her hand clenches around one of the pillows. The three of them have been here for about a half-hour now and have just finished catching each other up on current events. And as is _apparently_ habitual, that means that Jaskier and Yennefer have begun arguing. Geralt remains on the sidelines for now, unsure whether he should break it up or wait until one of them says something salient.

Yennefer grimaces, silent for a damning moment. Geralt’s sense of alarm increases. Then she sighs. “I do,” the sorceress admits, “but if there is a possibility— even slight— that you’ve overlooked something, then we need to explore it. I’ll not leave Geralt—”

“What?” the fae interrupts demandingly, “leave him to suffer, do you mean, Yennefer? Leave him alone? Leave him unprotected?”

The sorceress glares. “Yes, actually! Do you think he’ll be _happy_ here in the long run? I mean, really—”

“Yen,” he interrupts sharply. “It’s fine. There’s no need to—”

“Fine?” she spits, spinning to stare at him, violet eyes ablaze.

He sighs. “Less than ideal, admittedly. But I’ve accepted it. The fact that you’re here, that I can _see_ you and communicate with the others, it’s…” Geralt swallows, abruptly choked up. _It’s more than I’d hoped for. I could be content with that_. Jaskier makes a faint, distressed noise and when the witcher seeks his eyes out, they’re wide and sorrowful. He wrenches his gaze away, clears his throat, and continues: “If you insist, we’ll look into it. But if we don’t find anything, it’ll be alright.”

A dreary, heavy silence falls over the three of them.

Yennefer’s eyes become sad and distant. Instinctually, Geralt reaches out a hand to— to cup her cheek, or maybe to wipe away the tear that’s rolling down it, but then drops it as he remembers that he can’t reach her. The sorceress jerks away anyway. Her expression hardens. Both Jaskier and Geralt are silent still, watching her. Yennefer glares at them. “Stop that, we have work to do!”

With a sigh, Jaskier gets to his feet. “That we do.” A moment later Geralt follows.

The sorceress nods, pleased. “Thank you. Now wipe those dreary expressions from your faces, they’re making me cross. Seemingly impossible odds are nothing we haven’t faced before. After all, we ourselves are _proof_ that everything has an exception: Geralt, you’re the son of a sorceress for the Gods’ sake, Jaskier that idiocy and depthless charm know no spherical bounds—” the fae groans, pouting good-naturedly— “and myself that determination will get you anywhere. Literally.” She glances around as if for emphasis.

Despite himself, Geralt finds his mood lightening. “Are you finished? If so, then I suppose we’d better get started.”

Yen smirks. “Yes, I’m done. Don’t expect a speech like that from me again. Jaskier, where’s the library?”

**• ~ * ~ •**

A week later and they haven’t made much progress, although Geralt knows much more about the Conjunction than he ever thought he would— or wanted to. While he enjoys learning, there is something to be said for innate enthusiasm for a topic powering one’s studies. Eskel grumblingly recalls helping Geralt study the monster compendium, keeping him in line when they were supposed to be focusing on academic work, and listening with (sometimes feigned) enthusiasm when he’d found a topic he enjoyed. That hasn’t changed in the decades since their childhood— a word Geralt uses roughly here. Still, he slogs through the library’s various historical records on the Conjunction, Yennefer the magical aspects of it, and Jaskier the Courtly and social.

Just as he catches his mind wandering to the small— but intriguing— section on Fay combat, someone clears their throat and asks, “What’re you researching?” The witcher startles, his chair falling to the ground as he leaps to his feet. A moment later, he relaxes, exhaling harshly in irritation. Fortunately, none of the books he has piled up fall over.

“I apologize,” Mirabella says, setting the chair upright.

Geralt swallows his irritation. “I’m looking at your records of the Conjunction. From what Jask— the Viscount has told me, our spheres have a unique relationship.”

The Majordomo nods. “That’s true. Still, it seems somewhat of a niche topic.”

He can tell that she’s fishing for an answer, but not _what_ it might be. “Well I have the time, so. Why not indulge myself?” That seems to do it.

Mirabella frowns momentarily, gaze sharpening as she seems to puzzle something over. “You _are_ aware that you can’t leave our sphere?”

Geralt nods, a touch exasperatedly. “I’m aware.”

Mirabella frowns, staring consideringly at the stack of books. Then she looks up. “I don’t understand,” the fae admits.

Geralt shrugs. “Call it morbid fascination, call it a Witcher’s intuition, but it seems like a topic that requires looking into. Some people say I have a knack for doing the impossible. Or at least Yennefer does... At worst, all I lose is a little time out of my day, and I have plenty of that now. So why not indulge the sorceress and see if there _isn’t_ something that can’t be done? Besides, I don’t— didn’t— often have the luxury of just reading. Witchers aren’t welcome in most libraries.” He smiles unpleasantly.

Mirabella purses her lips briefly, then sighs. “In that case, you might be interested in the historical volumes kept on display in the study— they’re much rarer, and so it seemed… fitting for them to be displayed. For the household’s sake, you understand.”

He snorts. _Nobles showing off their riches, nothing different from home then_. “Right. What’s so interesting about them?”

The fae brushes back an errant strand of her hair. “They’re more extensive than the selection you have. Those books contain arcane speculation about the Conjunction, folklore suppositions, and alternate versions of events; an addendum of sorts to the treatises here. I’ll arrange to have them transferred to the library for you if you’d like.”

“I would. Thanks.” Geralt pauses awkwardly. “I assume you’re not just here to keep me company. Place this big, a woman like you must constantly be busy.”

Mirabella smiles dryly. “Indeed. The Viscount has asked me to extend you a cordial invitation to lunch.”

“Well, in that case, I accept. Will Madam Yennefer be joining us?”

“She opted to take a working lunch.”

“I see.” He does his best to straighten out the stack of books, tucks the chair in, then follows Mirabella from the library.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Lunch is a subdued affair as the witcher and fae are both mentally drained from pouring over books all morning. They eat quietly and before he knows it, Geralt’s plate is empty. He hesitates, knowing that he should probably just stand up and go back to work. “Wait,” Jaskier says. The witcher stills, looking over at him curiously. “How about we take the afternoon off?”

“But Yen—”

The fae snorts. “Doesn’t have to know. Come on, Geralt, I can see how pent up you are. Isn’t work of this sort done best with a clear head anyway? We could spar.”

He hesitates for a time, torn between duty and temptation. But there _is_ truth to Jaskier’s belief that academia is best approached clear-headed. “Very well. What exactly did you have in mind?”

**• ~ * ~ •**

They spar for hours before Geralt calls it quits, chest heavy, skin slick with sweat. Although he’s done his utmost to stay in shape, there are still no monsters to fight here, so facing off against Jaskier is the toughest fight he’s had in weeks. Therefore, the witcher doesn’t mind the exhaustion, quite enjoys the feeling of it, actually. It lets him know that he’s _done_ something. The fae seems to enjoy the sight of his shirtless skin too if the goosebumps he gets from Jaskier’s lingering gaze are any indication.

“Think I’d like to check out that bathhouse now if you don’t mind,” Geralt tells the fae once he’s caught his breath.

“That sounds lovely,” Jaskier agrees, striding over to steal a kiss. “It should still be empty if we hurry.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Geralt cracks open one molten amber eye as a hand brushes over his slick, warmed shoulder. He’s tired from their earlier exertions, and his eyelids have only drooped further from relaxing in the bath. The witcher’s not sure if it’s fueled by magic or something else but decides that it doesn’t particularly matter. The bathhouse is made of gray stone, with large columns and an impressive dome, topped with a gold weathervane. It’s connected to the rest of the manor by a covered paved path.

Despite this, the building by itself is rather small— there’s an entryway and cloakroom, changing area, and then the bath itself, which is circular. It’s big enough for maybe ten or twelve people; there are larger baths in Novigrad. Still, it makes up for its size with luxury and by the fact that it’s private. The bath’s bottom is tiled with a maritime mosaic of sea life, including plants, and the ceiling painted with a scene of the night sky, including jeweled inserts to represent individual stars. They gleam lowly in the dim light. Every time he looks up, Geralt spies another new detail.

He shakes himself from his musings and turns to face Jaskier, who’s started running one hand slowly up and down his arm, sharp nails making his skin tingle in their wake. “Let me take care of you,” the fae whispers. His eyes gleam just as beautifully as the false stars overhead, only they’re more heated. This shakes the witcher from his laze and he sits up, a spark of mischief and intrigue heating his belly. He exhales sharply through his nose and focuses on using his _mind_ for a moment, heat in his stomach replaced with butterflies. They’ve been heading in this direction for a while now, it’s true, but is this really the right time?

 _Yes_ , Geralt decides abruptly, _it is_. “Alright,” he murmurs, eyes lowering to half-mast. Jaskier’s returning smile is sharp, seductive, and consuming.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Yen bursts into the library, startling him. “What is it?” Geralt asks urgently, half-rising from his seat.

“Does the name Tam Lin sound familiar?” she asks, a peculiarly insistent look in her eyes.

The witcher frowns, settles back down, and racks his brains. It does sound familiar for some reason, although he can’t quite remember where from. “Yes…” Geralt agrees slowly. Then he recalls it and stands so abruptly that he knocks over the chair. He ignores this in favor of pulling a particular tome— one that Mirabella had recommended— out of the pile. The witcher flips through its pages, scanning them rapidly for any mention of the name. When he finds it and looks up, Yennefer is already at his side, reading. “What’s his significance?” Geralt inquires.

“I’m not sure yet,” the sorceress mutters distractedly, eyes still skimming the book, “but I recall reading about an ancient _sorcerer_ of the same name in texts I borrowed from Aretuza before you were stuck here. I’ve seen a few passing mentions of a sorcerer in Jaskier’s collection as well. It seems too convenient a coincidence to be meaningless. This will give me more to look into once I’m home.”

Despite himself, his stomach falls, and Geralt’s head jerks up. He stares. “What do you mean?”

Yennefer frowns, eyeing him seriously. “You know I can’t stay here.”

The witcher opens his mouth to reply, then slowly closes it, asking himself the same thing. Deep down, he knows this to be true. After all, no matter how well packed or plentiful, no supplies last forever. And after going through all the trouble to avoid it, the sorceress is hardly going to deign to eat food from Faerieland now. Furthermore, it would prove highly inconvenient for them all if she were to be trapped here too. “Yes,” Geralt concludes slowly. _I just conveniently forgot that_.

Yen’s eyes soften and she smiles gently. “I’m not leaving forever, Geralt. Besides, we have a lead now. For me to follow it, I’ve got to access the tomes at Aretuza, as well as my own collection, and probably Kaer Morhen’s again too. I’ll also be able to update your brothers and Vesemir this way.”

“We should let Jaskier know,” he says stiffly.

The sorceress smiles again and holds her arms open, arching a brow expectantly. Geralt steps forward and returns the hug. After a while, Yen pats him on the back then steps away. He huffs. Yen swallows. “Alright, let’s go inform your man of my imminent departure. He’ll be delighted.” Despite the sarcasm, she can’t hide the glimmer in her eyes. Geralt snorts and doesn’t comment on it, feeling that that would make him a bit of a hypocrite. After all, he feels the same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How does Yennefer manage to portal to Faerieland, you may ask? Well without revealing too much, let’s just say that she’s good at portaling out of difficult situations. 
> 
> Yennefer: “My love language is roasting people until they cry.” 
> 
> Jaskier, muttering: “What do you do to people who you _don’t_ like?” 
> 
> Yennefer: “Oh, that’s simple. I kill them.” 
> 
> Jaskier, Geralt: . ____ .’


	16. History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt, Yennefer, and Jaskier have now focused on their new lead. The sorceress has departed Faerieland in hopes of learning more about the mysterious Tam Lin at Kaer Morhen, Aretuza, or perhaps somewhere else. Her other goal is to update Geralt’s family on his situation, as they are quite concerned about the wayward Wolf. 
> 
> The witcher and fae have made progress in their own research, but Geralt now feels troubled by something unrelated to this most personal of cases. Their supposed-ally, Mirabella, evidently knows more than she’s admitting to, and he’d like to find out why. Jaskier, when appraised of the potential problem, would too.

Creating and using the portal is vastly easier the second time around, even if Yennefer still has to exert a lot of energy to surpass the spherical barrier; at least this time she hasn’t had to _guess_ her destination. Now that the sorceress has seen where Geralt is, traveling to Faerieland will be far less unpleasant from here on out. While Yennefer would like to believe— and had in fact played up in the others’ company— that it was her power and prowess in the magical arts which had initially allowed her to breach the divide, that would be a blatant lie. _I was lucky_ , she thinks sourly, and exhales slowly.

With a good measure of irritation, the sorceress wipes a bead of sweat from her brow and brushes her hair back into some semblance of order, even though there’s no one else here to see her. The servants won’t be back until she recalls them as this isn’t exactly a planned trip. She only visits Gors Velen when necessity dictates it. Unfortunately, that’s now more than ever. Yennefer grimaces at her reflection again— she’s only staying long enough to refresh herself, then it’s off to Kaer Morhen to inform the other Wolves of Geralt’s situation.

If all goes smoothly, Yen plans to take messages from them to deliver to their fellow witcher at another time. After that, she’ll settle here to begin her work. As she freshens up, the sorceress runs over the list of things and favors she’ll need to ask or do in her head and sighs, for it’s not an insubstantial list. All for one idiotic witcher and his very irritating not-bard.

**• ~ * ~ •**

The fact of the matter is, Geralt trusts his instincts. He _has_ to, because no one else is going to help him determine if a monster is a Ghoul or Alghoul, a Griffin or an Arch Griffin. Most people wouldn’t even bother to assist him if they found him lying injured at the side of the road— many innkeepers don’t want to let him a room either, despite the fact that his coin is no different from any others’ and it’s also a bald-faced lie that witchers carry diseases. So he trusts his instincts about Mirabella.

She’s helped him— and Jaskier indirectly— twice now. Ordinarily, he might let such suspicions go: there _have_ been times, rare as they are, when people are inexplicably kind to him. This, however, is not one of them. Discreetly reuniting him and Jaskier makes sense: Mirabella is the Pankratz’ Majordomo, so it’s her duty to ensure the household runs smoothly, and peace between them makes that easier. But pointing him in the direction of books that _coincidentally_ provide a much-sought lead? That can’t be accidental. This means that Mirabella knows more than she’s letting on. Furthermore, there’s no apparent benefit to helping Geralt research what, as the fae herself had said, is a ‘niche’ topic. Which means that her actions have motives.

Nothing untoward has happened since his arrival in Faerieland. That alone has made the witcher’s anxious anticipation slowly increase the longer he’s here; in Geralt’s experience, threats don’t just _disappear_. Valdo Marx still might be unsatisfied with his revenge. He fully expects to have to face the Court at some point too— he hasn’t forgotten Mirabella’s warning (threat?) that Jaskier’s household might not be as secure as they had imagined. Furthermore, all he knows about the woman are the things Jaskier has told him and what he’s gathered from his own observations.

Jaskier seems to trust and like Mirabella, she’s intelligent, devoted to her duties, and was hired by the elder Pankratz, who holds a Court position. It’s not enough to put everything together, but it _is_ sufficient to make him feel that he’s overlooking something. That a larger plot is in place, maybe, or at least that he doesn’t know the full story. And Geralt hates being left out of the loop. It’s time he and Mirabella talked.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Since Yennefer’s departure, it’s been much quieter. Or maybe that’s just him missing the sorceress. _No, she and Jaskier definitely made things louder with their arguing_ , the witcher concludes with a snort. One benefit of Yen’s absence is that less of his time is taken up playing go-between for his friends. Meaning that Geralt is able to slip out of the library without Jaskier noticing. The witcher wanders around in search of the Majordomo, trying not to arouse suspicion. Eventually, he finds her in the bowels of the manor, mid-conversation with one of the kitchen staff.

The other Fay startle slightly when they notice Geralt leaning in the kitchen doorway, watching intently as he waits for Mirabella to finish her conversation; it seems to either be about preparations for dinner or about having someone polish the dishware. But when the witcher stays quiet and makes no move to interfere, the servants return to their work. _Must be stories about Witchers here like we’ve got stories about the Fay_ , he thinks with some vague sort of interest. Moments later, the servant nods their head and ducks out a door at the back of the room.

The Majordomo looks up, eyes finding him quickly. She blinks once and Geralt notes the way her shoulders tense slightly as she does. The fae forcibly relaxes, clasping her hands at her waist. They continue observing one another and the kitchen’s hustle and bustle fade to background noise. Eventually, Mirabella speaks: “I take it there’s a reason for your presence here, Geralt. Would I, by any chance, be it?”

“Yeah, you would. Know a place where we can speak privately?”

After a brief hesitation, Mirabella nods. She steps past him, out of the kitchen. “Follow me.” The witcher is subsequently led up two flights of a previously-unexplored staircase. _Must be for the servants_ , he concludes from the relative lack of decoration or architectural embellishment. From there, they walk down a hallway and stop before a door on the right. Mirabella unlocks it. “Welcome to my abode, Witcher.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

The space is like the manor in miniature— several large, full bookshelves take up one corner, a table, two chairs, fireplace, mid-sized lounge chair occupy another. In the third corner is a desk, piled high with parchment and quills. There’s also an unlit candle. In the last corner is a closed door which he assumes leads to a bath chamber and bedroom. A small kitchenette fills the rest of the space. Overall, it’s a larger area than even his room. Geralt whistles lowly. “Guess there are some privileges that come with being a Majordomo.”

Mirabella smiles faintly and gestures to the large lounge in front of the unlit fireplace. “That there are.”

Geralt follows her lead and sits, feeling somewhat uneasy, though he tries not to show it. Mirabella takes the other end of the lounge. Then she turns to face him, hands clasped loosely in her lap. “Now that we have your requisite privacy, would you explain what you wished to speak about, Geralt?”

The witcher purses his lips and looks around the room once more. When his gaze resettles, Mirabella is looking back readily. _She’s been expecting this_. Geralt doesn’t know whether to be more grateful that she’s unafraid or warier. He clears his throat, then speaks carefully: “You’ve been helping me— or helping Julian, and myself indirectly. I want to know why.”

The fae nods politely, utterly undisturbed by his near-accusations. “I expected that you would eventually.”

“I’m sure. While we’re on the subject, I’d also appreciate hearing about what else you know and how.”

“I am not a spy, Geralt—”

“Do I really look _that_ stupid? Any spy would say that.”

“I wasn’t finished yet, Witcher, so please do not presume to know what I do or do not think. Marcin and Lorida Pankratz truly did hire me to watch over their son and household. If necessary— and it appears to be, given your current expression— I will elaborate on the situation further. Those who are, shall we say, _unhappy_ with the Court’s politics were pleased when Marcin Pankratz took up a position there.”

Geralt blinks, more than a little surprised by the implications— if they’re true. “That’s not what the Viscount told me.”

“He wouldn’t have; Julian doesn’t know. These are complicated, delicate times in this sphere, Geralt. As a stranger here, you couldn’t hope— or be expected— to understand them immediately.” 

The witcher’s lips purse. But as much as he’s irritated by the condescending, Mirabella is correct. Clearly, he _doesn’t_ understand. “In that case, why don’t you assist me with my understanding or lack thereof?”

“When I said that propriety is important, I meant it.”

“You mean there’re spies here.”

“Precisely.”

They fall silent for a moment, Geralt’s brow furrowing. “You’re not going to tell me who they are, are you?”

“I’m not. Nor do I know the identities of all.”

The witcher frowns, eyes flashing. “Then I suppose you also won’t tell me what else you know nor how you know it.”

Mirabella sighs softly. “I will not, for my sake as much as your own. I don’t expect you to trust me, but I will still assure you that I mean neither you nor the Viscount any harm, Geralt. At the very least, I would urge you to continue to make use of my information and assistance even if you are wary of it. For it has proven helpful, no?”

Reluctantly, Geralt meets her open gaze and inclines his head slightly. “It has. For that reason, and that alone, Mirabella, you’ve earned yourself the benefit of the doubt. Temporarily.”

She smiles. “Thank you, Witcher. Whether you believe me or not, know that I will reveal more if it becomes necessary.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

After her trip to Kaer Morhen to update the other (very worried) Wolf witchers, Yennefer returns to Gors Velen and begins sorting through the materials she’s accumulated. As she does, the sorceress uncovers pieces of newly-relevant information but not much of it. It seems she’s hit a dead end. So she decides to change tactics.

The Brotherhood has always kept thorough and self-aggrandizing records of their notable members, and this includes an extensive collection of portraits as well as biographies. Both are closed to the public as some of the paintings and books are quite old. Since she’s looking for a sorcerer, she might have more luck combing the libraries at Ban Ard than those at Aretuza, Kaer Morhen, or her personal collection. Yennefer makes an appointment with the head archivist and makes a trip to Kaedwen.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“You were gone for a while,” Jaskier murmurs, without looking up from his book. He’s perched in Geralt’s old seat, booted feet folded over each other atop an empty chair. But he’s left the witcher’s stack of books and notes carefully undisturbed.

The witcher hesitates, on instinct almost responding with ‘I was stretching my legs’ or some other excuse. Geralt carefully represses the protective instinct. _Honesty_ , he reminds himself. _You owe it to him the same as he does to you_. “I was talking to Mirabella.”

The fae’s eyebrows raise as he lowers his book, then sets his feet on the ground. “What for? Did she give you another chewing-out over your etiquette?”

Geralt, sensing both curiosity and an endearing protectiveness behind the question, snorts. He nips Jaskier’s concerns in the bud. “No. I asked her why she’s been helping us covertly.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens briefly. He shuts it, brow furrowing as the fae thinks it over, evidently coming to the same conclusion Geralt had. “Oh,” he says finally. “Well what was her answer?”

“Funnily enough, there _wasn’t_ one,” Geralt says, smiling humorlessly, “she just raised more questions.”

“Did she now? How very interesting... Care to tell me more?”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Ban Ard is as unchanged as ever and Yennefer grimaces as she enters through the large wooden doors and steps into the cool, gray entrance hall. The floor is made of smooth, gray stone slabs, and the sparsely-decorated walls hold tapestries depicting monster hunts, sorcerous expeditions, or Court scenes. Interspersed are the stuffed heads of various beasts. _How very masculine_. She feels her mood worsening the farther into the school she wanders, especially at the _looks_ she receives from some of the young initiates she passes. As it’d hinder her efforts and be a waste of time, she resists cursing them.

After reaching the library, Yennefer greets the simpering, ancient archivist and listens to his explanation of the rules and the library’s layout with barely-feigned interest. She then thanks him for his time and slips away to do some more exploration on her own, hoping that all the irritation thus far will yield worthy results. _If only Geralt knew what I do for him_. She sighs, shaking her head slightly at herself.

This far back in the archives, she’s passed several posted notices, all proclaiming: ‘ALL TORCH-USE STRICTLY BANNED’ and even magic can’t quite eliminate the traces of dust or the scent of must from the area. She’s sure that there must be enchanted candles available at the front desk, but Yennefer is not about to walk all the way back there and possibly be side-tracked by the archivist. Not to mention the little detail that she isn’t entirely sure _how_ to make her way back. The sorceress shoves the issue aside— it’s minor and can be dealt with later. And thankfully she doesn’t need a candle. At a command, a small flame flickers to life at her fingertips.

“Now where the _hell_ is he?” Yen mutters, heels clacking loudly against the floor as her pace quickens in irritation.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“Do you trust her?” Jaskier asks, rubbing his thumb absently across the back of Geralt’s hand.

After the fae’s request for more information about his talk with Mirabella, the witcher had asked to go somewhere with more privacy. So they’d retreated to his room and are now reclining on the couch together. The fae, undoubtedly disturbed by all the new, surprising information, had pressed himself close against the witcher’s side and hasn’t moved away since. Geralt, also feeling unsettled, lets Jaskier do as he pleases and carefully doesn’t admit that the ~~cuddling~~ physical contact is comforting to him too.

He blinks, looking into the fae’s wide blue eyes. “No, I don’t… But I believe her,” Geralt replies slowly.

Jaskier makes a face at that and his hand stops moving for a moment, until he reads the displeasure on Geralt’s face and resumes the movement. “Hmm. Well I doubt there’s much we could do to circumvent her at the moment anyway. It’d look too suspicious if there are Court spies here, and since _my parents_ appointed her—” the fae’s voice wavers and he clears his throat, “well. I suppose we’ll just have to wait, and hope that nothing bad happens in the meantime.”

Geralt grips Jaskier’s hand back until the fae looks up and some of the worry in his expression ebbs away. “It won’t,” the witcher promises roughly, and seriously. _I’ll make sure of it_.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Finally, in the furthest back reaches of the library, Yen finds another section of portraits. Before the display is a carefully-worded, officious notice that the authenticity of these particular portraits should be taken with a grain of salt. After all, from what she’s gathered Tam Lin must have lived during the time of the Conjunction, thus 1,500 years ago. So there’s no telling the age of his painted contemporaries.

The portrait itself isn’t much to look at— while it’s aged better than most of its non-sorcery-related counterparts would, time has still taken a toll. The small, dark wooden frame is carved with a pattern of leaves and berries and varnished, but it’s also stained in places and cracked. A small brass plaque attached to the bottom middle proclaims: TAM LIN in plain, thick lettering. The canvas itself is no larger than a large book and depicts a man from waist-up with a dark background, at three-quarter’s view. He sits sideways on a tall chair, arm resting on a stack of books. The background appears to be either a library or a manor sitting room. It’s dull and some of the details have been lost, but the artist’s remarkable skill is still apparent. Yen steps closer to examine the painting more carefully.

Tam Lin has dark hair— tied back loosely with a silver clasp— a neat goatee, thin moustache, and winged brows. He’s thin and tall with sharp cheekbones and an aquiline nose. A faint smile twists his lips and the sorcerer almost seems to be looking at something just out of sight. For some reason, Yennefer gets a sense of déjà vu from it, as if she’s seen his face somewhere before. It’s an unsettling feeling, so she jerks her gaze away and turns around to look for an accompanying biography or at least a book that will have _some_ new information on him. After another few minutes of searching, she finds a promising tome.

**• ~ * ~ •**

_After the event knowen as the Conjunction of the Spheres, or more simply: The Conjunction, many strange and disparate creatures mingled with the species of Man in this new world. While I personally was not Witness to these happenings, I have studied the Records most seriously and interview’d several credible Sources on the matter. This is the account I have pieced together as a result: Our est’med brotheres sought to studie and name most Species, to determine which might be subdued and which might be bartered with and lived alongside Peacefully._

_Those known as Elves, while possessing equal intellect, proved stand-offish, violent, and disin’lined to trade their riches. Their brethren, the Fay, took this to Extremes, not wanting anything to do with the Brotherhoode or our Emissaries, even when we explained that what they sought to do were impossible. Several Brotheres returned to us injured or curs’d this way. Forsooth, those fair folk seem’d most irritable about the prospect of becoming Neighbors with Man._

_Being most desirous to gain faivor with these beings, the Brotherhoode attempt’d a’other approach, sending in a most learned brother by the name of Tam Lin, in hopes that his proffered help would turn the Fay’s opine of us more favorable. Brothere Lin, being learned in the arte of Portals and all such Physickal sciences, was dispatched to make Contact and offer his services. After many days of travel and Toil, he met a Fairie, or so we have gather’d. For, not long after this, Brothere Lin vanished and all attempts to divine his location, either through Magik or more pedestrian means, fail’d utterly. Since then we have determin’d to leave this most bitter Race to their own miserable devices._

— Anonymous, 840 BR, pp. 130 – 132, “The Conjunction’s Aftermathe,” _Earlie Yeares of The Est’med Brotherhoode of Sorcerers: A History_

Yennefer carefully extinguishes her miniature flame, discretely tucks the book under her arm, and creeps past the sleeping archivist to hunt down a spare ink bottle, quill, and parchment to take notes with. Then she settles at a remote desk and continues reading.

**• ~ * ~ •**

This time, the chaos after the portal appears is minimal. Some nearby furniture rattles momentarily and loose parchment and open books rustle in the brief whirlwind. Then Yennefer appears and everything calms. Geralt stares, stomach filled with a confusing mix of delight and apprehension. _The only reason she’d be here was if there were something of import to share_. Beside him, Jaskier is quiet too. “So you two haven’t been slacking off in my absence as I’d feared. Good,” Yen quips.

“You’ve returned!” Jaskier exclaims, smiling widely before he catches himself. The fae’s expression smooths over and he looks around at their surroundings pompously. “While I’m pleased to see that you seem to have mastered the art of inter-spherical portaling, _please_ use more care where you practice it. The rug in Geralt’s room which you portalted onto last time belonged to my grandmother, you know, and I don’t think she’d be pleased by its treatment.”

Geralt speaks up before the bickering worsens: “I take it you have news for us, Yen?”

The sorceress nods. “I do.” She smooths out her skirt, adjusts her hair, then sinks into a chair with a sigh. After taking a long drink from her waterskin, Yen digs around in her bag and withdraws several pieces of parchment, filled with notes in her hand. She straightens them out and sets them on the table. Then Yennefer looks up and studies Geralt’s anxious expression.

“Lambert implied, rather colorfully, that this situation is evidence that you’ve had a dalliance, or two, with some barnyard animals and must have caught a disease from it.” Yen stares flatly at him for a moment and Geralt feels faintly embarrassed. Then she clears her throat and continues, “He also told me that he’s expecting Jaskier to meet him in in Kaer Morhen’s central courtyard for a duel when this is over. Eskel sends his best wishes, and asked me to, quote, ‘Smack that idiot on the back of the head for me, but affectionately.’ He also requested Jaskier to keep you in line, ‘or else.’”

“And Vesemir?” Geralt asks carefully, projecting calm into his voice. Not that it fools anyone.

This time, the sorceress is the one to maintain a façade of calm. “His message was this: ‘Finish the job, whatever it takes. Then we’ll talk.’” Geralt nods, swallows, and ignores his companions’ clearly curious silence. The old witcher’s words’ true meaning is for him, and him alone: _Stay safe and come home to us, Wolf. The full story and explanation can wait until then_.

**• ~ * ~ •**

After a bit more catching up, Yennefer insists they get back to work. Geralt knows her enough to keep his concerns about her well-being after such heavy use of magic concealed. With a sharp glance from the witcher, Jaskier does too. “Tell us what you’ve learned, and we’ll do the same,” Geralt requests.

Yen sighs softly. “I paid a visit to Ban Ard on a hunch. It proved to be a good one because I found our man. Tam Lin—” the sorceress pulls her notes close and begins reading from them— “was adept in portaling and Physics. He was sent out as, shall we say, a diplomatic envoy to the Fay. The text I studied mentioned the Fair Folk having some sort of magical problem. The Brotherhood evidently believed that if they were the ones to solve it, relations with the Fay might improve. Shortly after that, however, Lin disappeared. So apparently, their efforts were ineffective.”

“Yet somehow, ours is the sole sphere to have maintained a connection— even tenuous— with yours,” the fae mutters softly, brow furrowing.

Geralt nods slowly in agreement. _I’m beginning to see the larger picture now_. “If the unnamed sorcerer I’ve been reading about _is_ Tam Lin, then that corroborates the Fay accounts I’ve seen mentioning a sorcerer who performed a great feat of magic for them, though they never discuss it in detail. Only one story mentions him by name. Its source— whose prerequisite for speaking was anonymity— claimed that Lin fell in love with one of the Queen’s handmaidens after he ended up here and that he only acted out of his feelings for her. At the time I thought it seemed rather far-fetched, but now I’m not so sure…”

Jaskier frowns. “That would also explain something I’ve been wondering about. From what I’ve read, it seems that people were inordinately interested in love magic around this time. Perhaps now we know why.”

“Bloody hell,” Yennefer mutters hollowly.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Despite spending a maddening amount of time in the library over the next several days, Geralt still finds himself filled with a new sense of invigoration. Even after they’d uncovered the Tam Lin lead, he still hadn’t thought that this research could truly change anything. Now he’s of a different mind. Knowing that Lin was a sorcerer— evidently one in a similar position to him— and had performed some powerful act of magic in service of the Fay, possibly assisting them with their spherical problem, gives him real hope.

But for them to do fix anything, they need to uncover the full story. Hence his and Jaskier’s current project: combing through records of the Court’s members and noble lineage in hopes of discovering the identity of the mysterious handmaiden who’d supposedly fallen in love with Tam Lin. The witcher’s instincts tell him that if they find her, their mystery will become less mysterious. Geralt sighs, rubbing his eyes to clear the seemingly endless list of names and useless factoids from them. Any one of these people could be a lead, but he still finds it hard to make himself care about the nobility or their hangers-on. It’s also late, which doesn’t help matters.

Jaskier sends him a sympathetic smile before squeezing Geralt’s hand gently, then turns his attention back to his own book. Yennefer left a few hours ago to see if she could find any more information on Lin. Blinking absently, the witcher realizes he’s become distracted again. Just as he’s about to call it quits for the night, the library’s door creaks open.

Mirabella, looking unnervingly grave, strides through the door. She holds a candle in one hand and an envelope in the other. Something about the collected way she’s carrying herself sets off a pang of concern in Geralt. He’s used to the Majordomo’s somewhat remote and formal personality, but this seems _deliberate_. He and Jaskier glance at one another worriedly and stand quickly. “What is it?” Jaskier enquires, sounding slightly concerned.

Mirabella’s face smooths over, though there still seems to be something strained about her posture. “You’ve a letter from Court, Sir. It bears the royal seal.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen momentarily but he makes no move to accept the envelope. So the witcher encourages him: “Open it, Jas— Julian. It might be important.” Nodding numbly, the fae steps forward and takes the envelope. With slightly-shaking fingers he rips it open, reading its contents silently. Mirabella, Geralt notices absently, hasn’t left yet. But he pushes this observation from his head, instead of focusing on Jaskier’s expression. It grows more troubled as he continues to read. Geralt’s apprehension rises.

Finally, with a slight rustle and prolonged sigh, the parchment is lowered. Jaskier meets his gaze, then recites from the letter, voice hollow: “Dear Viscount Pankratz, you and one Esteemed Guest are cordially invited to an audience with her Highness, Queen Mab, at the royal palace. Further details will be worked out upon receiving your response. Please reply promptly.”

Suddenly, all thoughts of tedious research and tiredness are gone, replaced by a sick rush of adrenaline and dread. Geralt swallows, knowing that he should say something, but finds himself quite unable to speak. A stifled silence and eerie anticipation fill the room. However, it turns out that he doesn’t have to talk, for the Majordomo breaks the silence first.

“Then it’s as I feared,” Mirabella says grimly. After this, she sighs slowly and her eyes meet Geralt’s. The witcher waits for her words with an odd sort of anticipation, having a sense of what will come next. He isn’t disappointed. “And I suppose it is time for the truth to out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I finally drew Jaskier in his natural form! If you’re curious, you can see Fae Jaskier [here](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/e02c4943-76b5-48c8-82ed-73c764eef8db/dedlew0-343e5459-e737-46ba-afa4-07ef488f0bb9.jpg/v1/fill/w_854,h_588,q_75,strp/fae_jaskier_by_maskoftheray_dedlew0-fullview.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOiIsImlzcyI6InVybjphcHA6Iiwib2JqIjpbW3siaGVpZ2h0IjoiPD01ODgiLCJwYXRoIjoiXC9mXC9lMDJjNDk0My03NmI1LTQ4YzgtODJlZC03M2M3NjRlZWY4ZGJcL2RlZGxldzAtMzQzZTU0NTktZTczNy00NmJhLWFmYTQtMDdlZjQ4OGYwYmI5LmpwZyIsIndpZHRoIjoiPD04NTQifV1dLCJhdWQiOlsidXJuOnNlcnZpY2U6aW1hZ2Uub3BlcmF0aW9ucyJdfQ.G_geeBTq17xcEJk-gfMqcAUuYrmHveX72kEMrk0rQAQ). 
> 
> Also I almost used ‘C.E.’ for the date instead of ‘BR’ out of habit, lol, so [The Witcher Timeline](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Timeline) was VERY helpful.


	17. Inheritance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirabella reveals her secret to Jaskier, Geralt, and Yennefer. They finally understand just why it was so important for her to keep it. 
> 
> Aka the obligatory OC background chapter.

After Mirabella’s statement, an anticipatory silence blankets the room. For all the time that Geralt has spent in the library, he’s never seen anyone else— aside from Jaskier and his Majordomo— here. Only now does the witcher realize this. It seems suspicious, but probably means that Jaskier forbade anyone from disrupting Geralt in a bout of misguided protectiveness. He sets the concern aside since they have more pressing matters to deal with. As the lull continues, his sense of apprehension increases.

The witcher has never been afraid of the dark, but the library’s dimness feels oppressive.

“Sit down, Mirabella,” Jaskier commands, waving lazily to the empty chair across from them. This sends a pang of disquiet through Geralt. His initial turmoil about Jaskier’s species outweighed his… sentiments about the fae’s noble lineage, so seeing him _act_ like he has a title is unpleasant. As Mirabella sinks into the chair the witcher refocuses. The Majordomo’s posture appears relaxed, save for how her shoulders hunch slightly.

Eventually, Mirabella sighs. When she looks up, her dark eyes gleam in the candlelight. She seems resigned. “I am impressed by how far you’ve gotten with so little to go on,” she says, evidently warming up to the subject, “as I was unsure about what there was to uncover— but I’m also afraid that it isn’t enough. I had hoped that you’d discover more before the Court took interest because I don’t know the whole story. It isn’t mine.”

“So whose is it?” Geralt asks. The witcher has learned to how to collect information after years of speaking with clients, witnesses, suspects, and enemies. He knows when to prompt someone, ask a question, stay silent, or nod along. He also knows how to tell when someone’s sincere, _wants_ him to think they are, or something in between. Mirabella is completely sincere. If this story isn’t hers, then it belongs to someone she is— or _was_ — close to.

Mirabella smiles faintly and there’s something wistful about the expression. “Aniela Lynnetta, my mother. She is the Handmaiden you’ve been looking for.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

“Your _mother_!” Jaskier exclaims. “But that’d make you—”

“Jaskier—” the witcher interrupts.

“You must have an _amazing_ skin-care routine, Mirabella,” the fae concludes weakly.

Geralt speaks quickly to prevent further outbursts: “I’m unfamiliar with the Court’s more intimate functions, and I’d appreciate an explanation.”

The two Fay exchange a look before Jaskier gestures for Mirabella to continue. “The Handmaidens serve as living decoration for the Queen’s amusement. They’re chosen both for their power and beauty. In past times— when the two Courts still battled— their function was to protect the royal family. But that was long ago.”

He glances at Jaskier to see if he has anything to add but the fae shakes his head. So Geralt presses on: “So your mother was one of these Handmaidens. Does that mean Tam Lin…”

“Yes, he was my father,” Mirabella replies shortly.

Jaskier, always the story-teller, breaks into the conversation: “What _actually_ happened?”

The Majordomo scowls, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. When her hand settles on the table, it’s white-knuckled. “They fell in love.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

1,500 years ago the cataclysmic event known as the Conjunction of the Spheres occurred. Most of those impacted had little idea of how drastically it would alter their existence. Some erroneously assumed they’d be able to continue as they had, and adaptation was unnecessary. Others simply refused to. Elves— a distant off-shoot of the Fay— were the first type. The Fay were the latter. Unlike their brethren, the Fair Folks’ magic was powerful enough to prevent the total division of Faerieland from the new sphere. They’d had a similar experience, on a smaller scale, when the Elvish sphere had separated from theirs. Therefore, the Fay believed their troubles would be temporary.

They were wrong.

Although they staved off the total severance of Faerieland from the Continent, the Fair Folk soon understood this was not a long term solution. So their scholars began searching. They believed if an appropriate substance from this new sphere was found, it could be used to stabilize the gateway. Sympathetic magic, as it were, except on a cosmic scale. And the best stabilizer would a living one from the new sphere. Until now, the Fair Folk had kept themselves isolated, often with… cruel methods. So, erroneously, they believed Humans to be a native species.

Several centuries passed after this and time was running out. By observing the stars’ movements, the Fay realized that the connection grew strongest during their alignment. So they decided to act during the Winter Solstice when such an alignment occurred. But an appropriate stabilizer had to be found. The Queen gave this task to her Handmaidens. Aniela was the one met with success. For a Human male, adept in magic no less, volunteered to assist the Fay.

Little did he know how terrible the outcome would be for him.

Tam Lin had no idea what he would ultimately face. By the time he did, it was too late. The Fay had found what they hoped would be the solution to their problem. However, there was a snag in this plan. That Handmaiden fell in love with the Human she’d kidnapped and Aniela threatened to sabotage the ritual unless a less deadly alternate was found.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“The Queen acquiesced to her demands because they didn’t know if she’d be able to disrupt their ritual, for it was experimental. No one cared to risk Lin’s interference either, for Humans magic-usage was unstudied at the time. There is also something to be said for the… usefulness of consent. A self-determined sacrifice is more than a rhetorical device used by bards to move audiences,” Mirabella concludes, smiling grimly.

Geralt suddenly has a terrible sense where this story is going, remembers how _stricken_ Mirabella looked when he’d bemoaned his own circumstances during his first days here. If this story had a happy ending, then telling it wouldn’t take so long nor would it be omitted from the history books. Still, the witcher asks, “Tam Lin volunteered himself?”

Jaskier leans forward unconsciously, also eager to hear the answer.

“He did. My mother was pregnant, and he wanted their child to be able to follow their own path. That could not happen if they were limited to a single sphere.”

Silence blankets the room.

“He didn’t survive, did he?” Jaskier asks eventually.

“No.”

Geralt swallows, more than a little uncomfortable with the open emotion on Mirabella’s face. He’s never seen her this uncontrolled— given Jaskier’s expression, neither has he— though he doesn’t blame the Majordomo for her reservedness either. “Why help us?” the witcher asks.

Mirabella stares at him for a moment, dark eyes sad and determined. Her gaze moves to Jaskier, then fixes on the middle distance. Her lips purse as she seems to consider her answer. Geralt waits expectantly. “Because your situation is similar to theirs, and I could not stomach another unhappy ending.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

After Mirabella’s staggering revelations, it seems best to break for the night. Not that Geralt truly expects that he’ll be able to rest. Still, the witcher feels exhausted and more than emotionally. He’s acclimated to sleeping when he wants, enjoys his soft bed that’s free from the threat of violence. _Such weakness_ , Geralt thinks absently, too occupied to properly berate himself for it. Besides, if this is weakness— walking quietly through the manor with Jaskier’s hand in his own— then it’s a weakness he’ll gladly indulge in.

At the end of the hall where their paths should diverge, the witcher sleepily drifts away from the fae. But with a sudden jerk, he’s pulled to a stop. Jaskier, still holding his hand, has moved in the opposite direction. He blinks, expression most likely a comical combination of surprise and interest. The fae grins, which only adds to his interest. Geralt clears his throat, forcing himself to focus. “Jaskier…”

The fae blinks, expression changing so rapidly that even his eyes aren’t good enough to catch all the variants. While Jaskier’s grip remains gentle, it’s also unyielding and the tips of his sharp nails dig into Geralt’s wrist slightly. For a moment, they’re both drawn to that sight. Then the fae looks up, bright eyes a stark contrast to the surrounding darkness. Geralt feels his pulse increase in response to some remnant of instinct when Jaskier smiles. His thumb starts rubbing gently over the veins in the witcher’s wrist. Geralt knows that it’s no accident when a thumbnail scratches him gently. The witcher shakes his head and uses more of his strength than is customary to break away. Even then, he’s probably only able to because Jaskier allows it.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks, slightly more roughly than usual.

Jaskier lets his hand drop but otherwise stays where he is. This leaves them a few feet apart in the middle of the overlarge, empty hallway. “What are _you_ doing, Geralt?” the fae mimics. Only it sounds like a sincere question. At this, the tension simmering between them dissipates. The witcher blinks again, then does some mental calculations. They haven’t slept together, in the literal meaning, since... Months ago, apparently.

At first, this is surprising, but the longer he considers it, the less it becomes.

When he’d arrived here, Geralt hadn’t wanted anything to do with the fae. But after that was no longer true, he’d never _asked_ if he was allowed in Jaskier’s bed. This oversight is partly because they’ve had other things to deal with. However, that isn’t the only reason the witcher has ignored this issue— because the question also causes him to hesitate. Geralt worries that Jaskier might refuse him.

After all, the witcher remembers, even if only faintly, that small child’s confusion when they’d been left at the roadside. A grown man’s sense of betrayal when he’d bumped into the woman who’d abandoned him. A raven-haired lover’s anger when her partner ran— because if _he_ didn’t, then she eventually would... Geralt blinks. “I was going to my room,” he replies hesitantly.

“Ah.” Jaskier sucks in his bottom lip briefly, then sighs. “That’s your prerogative, of course, but I was going to invite you back to my room.”

“Back to your—” Geralt realizes he’s repeating the fae’s words _aloud_ and cuts himself off. He hesitates, then manages to shove aside his doubts. “Lead the way.” Jaskier smiles sweetly, grabs his hand, and gently tugs him forward. With some bemusement, as well as wonder, the witcher follows.

**• ~ * ~ •**

As the large double doors to Jaskier’s room— _suite_ , really— creak open, Geralt is taken aback. He’s seen luxury before, both of the sorcerous kind as well as that of royals. This is something else entirely. The floor is bathed in large squares of moonlight coming through three enormous windows. Each is tall enough to hold two of the witcher head-to-toe within their frames. Thick, velvet curtains are draped between them. The carpet’s padding is so thick that their movements are utterly silent. It feels strange beneath his shoes, stranger still on his bare feet.

The decadence only increases as they move on.

As far as he can tell, the next area is a lounge. It has several armchairs— all covered in pillows or quilts— as well as a low table. There’s a fireplace too and Geralt thinks it must be magic of some sort because it doesn’t appear to have a chimney. Then they walk into a slightly smaller room. The floor is hardwood, but there’s a large area rug. This room is divided into two sections and smells faintly of sweat, parchment, ink, and burnt candles. On the right, beneath a window, is a messy desk and a small bookshelf. On the left is a music stand, chair, lute case, and several notebooks. Geralt blinks. It’s a very lived-in space, intimate, surprisingly studious, and utterly Jaskier.

“My studio, as it were,” the fae supplies quietly.

The next room is a vast closet. The witcher inhales briefly, taking in the scent of silk, powders, and perfumes. The colors and patterns here are so numerous that Geralt is glad he’s not seeing them in daylight. There’s a full-length mirror against one wall and a small desk with a rounded stool before it. Various pairs of footwear are arranged neatly on the floor. A strange feeling rises in his chest at this display of excess. _I knew we were from different worlds, but this— an entire room for his garments alone?_

This is so utterly removed from a witcher’s existence that if Geralt weren’t absolutely certain he’s awake, he would think this was some sort of fever dream… A light touch breaks him out of his thoughts. “If I’d known you could be so absorbed by clothes, Geralt, I’d have brought you here sooner. Perhaps then I’d have had more luck getting you into something more flattering than those drab things you wear,” Jaskier says teasingly.

But his eyes are searching, as if he’s picked up on the witcher’s inner turmoil.

Geralt does his best to shut it down himself. “Better to ruin, as you say, ‘drab things’ than something expensive— I lack the skill required to mend a silk doublet.”

The fae smiles, though not very sincerely. “Right. I was just jesting… come on, we still have more to see.” Jaskier turns and walks away hurriedly, as if leaving this room will allow them to escape the underlying issues it’s brought up. Not that running works, in his experience. If it did, he’d have no problems left by now. _More?_ Geralt thinks. _How much fucking **more** can there be? _

As it turns out, two rooms.

The bath chamber contains a large metal tub. Water appears in it at the snap of Jaskier’s fingers. While it could be some sort of hidden contraption, he doubts it. _Magic. It has to be_ , the witcher concludes, although not definitively. He’s not wearing his medallion and has more-or-less become nose blind to the scent of Fay magic at this point.

“Would you like to take a bath with me?” Jaskier asks hesitantly.

Never one to waste resources or to look a gift bath in the drain, Geralt replies: “Yeah.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

The witcher’s eyes are closed and his chin rests atop his crossed arms, supported by his bent knees. Geralt luxuriates in the feel of Jaskier’s fingers brushing along his back, leaving droplets of water to rush down his skin. They’ve long since finished washing up and are now luxuriating in the warm water. This is something he has no complaints about. But it also gives room for him to think about the discomfort he’d felt earlier. Geralt is glad that his back is to the fae, as his expression is probably not the friendliest right now.

Although Geralt has a place he considers home, he doesn’t live at Kaer Morhen most of the year. Depending on his contract success rate, he’s sometimes little better off than a wandering vagrant. This means he’s no stranger to going to bed hungry, or to the feel of the road beneath his boots— because there’s a hole in them— or to contemplating how he can stretch his coin a little more when Roach needs new shoes and he potion ingredients. Geralt has lived long and traveled widely enough to meet all sorts: peasants with less coin than he but who are far wiser and the richest of nobles with heads just as empty as those peasants’ coin purses. The only guarantee money offers is comfort. How much of it people have is largely based on luck.

 _But most won’t admit it_ , he thinks darkly.

Whether it’s cowardice, naiveté, or deliberate ignorance, when confronted with this truth, denial seems to be a universal. “My father worked hard for his wealth!” he’s heard young, rich merchants sneer. _Yes_ , Geralt will reply mentally, _but the fact that he inherited his father’s wealth hinders nothing, does it? Nor does it bother you that said wealth was built upon your family’s ‘dealings’ with non-Humans._

Sorcerers and sorceresses are even worse because it _does_ take extended effort to become one. However, there is still some luck. An individual must have the innate talent for magic, after all. But mages refuse to listen to such reasoning, especially since it comes from a lowly witcher. Even those who _do_ know the bitter taste of hardship, like Yennefer, grow so accustomed to a life of luxury and privilege that their memories of anything else become faded.

His own luck is something the witcher considers, too.

If circumstances were different, Geralt knows that he very well could have been one of those sneering, contemptuous mages— or if he’d been left with his father, maybe he’d have grown up believing the same lies those privileged merchant’s sons do. Perhaps he’d have lived a normal life. Or instead been one of those unlucky enough to die miserably during the Trials. Or he could have been the poor son born of a poor man who’d been sired by another peasant. The witcher doesn’t know and usually avoids such speculations. They don’t matter.

Regardless of how current circumstances were created, they exist. He and Jaskier are from different worlds, in more ways than one. While the fae doesn’t seem to realize this, Geralt worries that those around him— around _them_ — do. Such as the Queen. After all, Aniela and Tam Lin had not been so very different, in rank at least, and yet their love had been disapproved of. _Doesn’t bode well for us_ , the witcher thinks gloomily.

Jaskier’s hand stills. He taps Geralt’s back. The witcher obediently glances back. He regrets it as soon as he does, for the fae’s eyes are sincere and concerned. “Are you alright, Geralt? You’ve been awfully quiet,” Jaskier comments softly. One of his hands tucks a wet strand of white hair behind his ear.

“Yes. I’m just— tired,” Geralt replies, as that is both true and the easiest answer. Though, if he were _really_ being honest and going for simplicity, ‘uncertain’ would be just as good a response. He’s grown since he and Yennefer were together and knows better than to _run_ now, but something inside the witcher still flinches away from the fae’s gentle responding smile. There is no way Geralt can think of to explain what he’s feeling without exposing himself in some way. Jaskier could probably handle it, but the witcher doesn’t want him to _have_ to.

“I love you, you know,” Jaskier murmurs, leaning forward to quickly peck Geralt on the cheek. The witcher stills, surprised by the gesture. Despite the bath’s heat, he shivers. “I’ve realized I don’t say it enough. So, allow me to repeat myself: I love you, Geralt.”

He smiles. _Perhaps I don’t have to explain it after all_. “I know, Jaskier. I love you too.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Jaskier’s response to the Queen’s invitation is simple and only a few sentences long. It’s perfectly polite, but the witcher still feels the words’ chill when he reads them: _I am honored by this invitation and hereby accept it on behalf of myself and Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde— more commonly known as Geralt of Rivia. I await confirmation of a date and time. Humbly, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove._

The letter they send to Yennefer is longer, but still polite.

“While it’ll be nice to have outside confirmation of Mirabella’s story— with all the magic she mentioned, there _must_ be some way to do it— I believe her,” Jaskier says as he seals the second envelope.

“I do too.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

“No, no, no! Geralt, if you bow like _that_ it’ll be terribly insulting.”

“And if I’m okay with that?”

“Please, dearest, be serious. I know you hate these ‘trivial’ matters, but—”

“Like this?”

“Exactly! That was beautifully executed, Geralt. Well done.”

“There’s no need for flattery, Jaskier, I only managed to bow properly.”

“Pshah! I only give compliments when they’re earned, Witcher. That was a _very_ nice bow.”

“Mm. You think so?”

“Do it again and I’ll show you how much.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Yennefer arrives as she always does: with drama and clamor. Although it seems that she really has mastered this new, and even more terrifying, form of portaling. The uproar barely lasts a minute before Yen is smoothing down her dress and hair and readjusting her bags— which look fit to burst. Geralt hurriedly abandons his cards and stand up to help her with them. Yen eyes Jaskier, who’s still sitting languidly on the floor, then their on-going game of Gwent.

Before she can say anything, Geralt beckons for her to sit and sets the bags in the corner. “How long are you planning to stay for?”

Yen sighs, sweeps her hair over one shoulder and seems to contemplate the question as she studies Jaskier’s hand over his shoulder. When Geralt is sitting again, she plucks a card from the fae’s grasp— causing him to squawk with indignation— and places it on the table. Then the sorceress inclines her head. As the witcher studies the card she’d played, not a great one as Jaskier is playing with Scoia’tael, Yen says: “Until my help is no longer necessary, so I’ll more than likely be here a while. At least until I run out of supplies.”

She reclines, watching their game absently.

The moment it’s over, Yen sits up and her demeanor instantly becomes serious. “If you’re done, I’d like to speak with Mirabella now. It seems she has some information to share.” The sorceress looks inquiringly at the witcher for confirmation.

Geralt meets her gaze firmly. “Mirabella’s not an enemy, Yen.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes and smooths down her skirt as she stands. “Alright, I’ll play nice. But if it turns out that she’s hiding something, don’t expect me to keep the gloves on.”

This time the witcher is the one to roll his eyes. “Nor would I in that case. Come on, we’re wasting time by arguing hypotheticalities.” When he looks around for Jaskier, the fae is gone. He sees a note on the table, in the fae’s hand, that says, ‘ _Went to retrieve my Majordomo._ _Meet at my chambers_.’ Geralt pushes open the door and leads them towards Jaskier’s suite.

**• ~ * ~ •**

If she’s impressed by the décor— or even notices it— Yennefer doesn’t say. When they reach the lounge, Jaskier and Mirabella look up. There’s a kettle and tray with three cups on the low table. Mirabella occupies one of the armchairs, Jaskier sprawls out on the sofa across from the fire. Yen dumps her bags on the ground, then commands, “Budge over.” The fae complies, pouting minimally. When Geralt sits, Jaskier decides to give the sorceress even more space, and presses himself to the witcher’s side. After huffing exasperatedly, Geralt allows it. The room is terribly quiet.

Yen’s brow is furrowed as she observes Mirabella. Then she stills. “You look just like your father,” she mutters, attention turning to the fae woman.

Mirabella blinks. “How do you know that?” she asks slowly.

“I visited Ban Ard— the sorcerers’ school— and did some digging. There’s a portrait of Tam Lin in their archives,” Yen answers, gaze unwavering. The Majordomo puts up with it remarkably well. Perhaps because she’s lost in thought.

“This… portrait, does it depict a man sitting at a table beside a stack of books?”

“It does.”

“Then I know it. The artists must have kept the mock-up— one moment.” Mirabella disappears.

Geralt and Jaskier, who have no idea _what portrait_ the women were discussing, look to the sorceress for explanation. “You’ll see,” Yen says mysteriously.

**• ~ * ~ •**

Mirabella returns with a painting about as long as her torso. She sets it on the hastily-cleared off table. Geralt inspects the work: Tam Lin sits at a table beside a stack of books, as previously described. The backdrop is part of a well-off household, but that’s not as important. The woman— who must be Aniela— that Lin is gazing at fondly is a fae. She’s holding a flower by its stem and her lithe body is in profile, face angled away and obscured by waist-length red hair. The resemblance between mother and daughter is subtle, but there. The similarity between Mirabella and her father, however, is undeniable. Yet Mirabella’s appearance doesn’t reveal her Human blood.

“How is this possible?” Jaskier asks, gaze moving from the painting to his Majordomo and back.

Yen glances at Jaskier. “For once, I’m of the same mind as the Viscount. If you’re wearing a glamour, Mirabella, then it’s remarkably executed— I can’t detect a thing. Even Jaskier’s leaves a trace.”

“It’s not a glamour precisely or something I myself created,” Mirabella answers, “but rather my parent’s doing.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

Knowing his time was short, Tam Lin discussed their child’s fate with his lover. Any blood relation the sorcerer had was long dead and he had no acquaintances he would trust with this matter— so the only option was to leave the child with Aniela. However, a part-Human would be just as much an outcast in the Unseelie Court as they would be on the Continent; a child of two worlds with a home in neither.

A Fay glamor was incapable of protecting the child from prejudice— if they’d even be able to produce one. It wouldn’t save them from their shorter lifespan. Nor would a glamour safeguard them from Aniela’s enemies. Something more had to be done. Since her act of betrayal, Aniela had taken refuge in the home of an old family friend, Egil Pankratz, and no one outside their small circle knew of the pregnancy. But she could be recalled or attacked at any time. So despite the great risk, the lovers agreed to use magic to speed up the pregnancy. The solution they’d devised could not be instituted while their child was still developing.

**• ~ * ~ •**

“Several months later I was born, and my parents had just enough time to cast their enchantment— a variation of what is done to sorcerers and sorceresses— before my father took part in the ritual and perished. My mother survived for several years more, but her heart had been weakened during the pregnancy. She passed just after my fifth birthday. Her serving maid cared for me, here, until I came of age,” Mirabella concludes, voice unwavering. No one is fooled by this display of nonchalance.

Several moments pass in silence.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says finally.

“It was a long time ago. But I appreciate your sentiments,” Mirabella replies stiffly.

“Why come back?” Yennefer asks, frowning.

The Majordomo shrugs gently. “It was familiar. In a way, it also felt appropriate, helping Egil’s descendants.” She turns to Jaskier. “Your parents are unaware of my ancestry. They only know that my sentiments are similar to theirs and that I am reliable. Unless I’m gravely mistaken, no one outside this room knows my identity.”

Jaskier, looking uncharacteristically grave, nods. “While the concern for my family’s safety is appreciated, I also understand, and sympathize, with your need for discretion, Mirabella.”

The Majordomo smiles, seeming genuinely relieved. “Thank you, Julian.”

Geralt cuts in then: “You mentioned that we haven’t uncovered what you wanted us to. Care to share what that would be?”

Mirabella sighs. “I’d hoped there would be records of the ritual that was done to tie our spheres—”

“Because we could reverse-engineer it and devise something for Geralt!” Yen interjects excitedly. Her eyes flash in admiration as she looks at Mirabella. “That’s not a bad idea— a bit reckless, true, but sound in theory.”

Mirabella nods. “Yes, that was my thinking. Unfortunately, I nothing of the ritual, hence my hope that you would be able to uncover something.”

“Did your father not leave behind any notes?” Geralt inquires, not really believing it can be that easy.

Sure enough, Mirabella disavows him of the notion, explaining: “All my father’s documents relating to the Conjunction were confiscated by the Court. They feared— perhaps justifiably— what could happen if they fell into the wrong hands.”

The witcher contemplates this conundrum for a moment and sighs. He’s beginning to get a headache from all the ups and downs of this conversation. “Explain to me again why it’s bad that we’ve been summoned to Court?” he asks.

Mirabella scowls. Geralt feels a thrill of alarm run down his spine, sees Yen’s fists clench in his peripheral vision. There is something powerful and violent in the fae woman’s dark eyes. It’s hatred. “Because it was the Queen’s mother who reigned during the Conjunction and Mab herself who erased my parent’s sacrifice from almost every historical record.”

**• ~ * ~ •**

“It still could be nothing, you know.”

“Mm,” Geralt acknowledges sleepily. Jaskier’s head is pillowed on his naked chest. They’re lying together in the fae’s enormous bed. It’s late. But neither of them have been able to sleep, the weight of the current situation too heavy on their minds. Earlier tonight, they received a reply from whichever Court official is in charge of correspondence. Geralt and Jaskier are expected at the palace tomorrow, by noon.

“I mean it. Seriously, what if we show up and the Queen just wants to know if witchers can really see in the dark, or something equally as trivial?” Jaskier asks. The fae glances up and caresses Geralt’s cheek when he sees the depth of his frown. The witcher closes his eyes.

When he reopens them, Jaskier does his best to smile unworriedly. “If that’s the case, then I’ll be more than happy to educate her majesty to her heart’s content about witcher-senses,” Geralt murmurs. Then he nuzzles at the fae’s jaw and kisses him. “Now go to sleep.” The witcher turns over and attempts to follow his advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally had Geralt and Jaskier going to the palace in this chapter, but that brought the word count up to **6,000** which I thought was excessive. So, next time! Sorry for the info dump, but I hope you all were (pleasantly) surprised by Mirabella’s revelation. 
> 
> Also I will gently point to the 'AU' description for this if any events depicted here don't line up with the canon timeline. It was too much of a headache to get that fussy about the details.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not done; I have a little more than 20k written, and am only posting this to motivate myself to finish it. So don’t expect frequent updates. The structure of this is also subject to change— you have been warned. 
> 
> I did a _ton_ of research for this, and my notes will be included in the last chapter, whenever that gets posted. For now, all you need to know is that I base my Fay on western European (specifically UK) lore. 
> 
> Title is a lyric from the song, “Broom People” by The Mountain Goats. Watch the music video [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2CAfGOlCEU&list=OLAK5uy_nz_h2mHUqmglhlS-WtM1EiMfD9KSxX6Os&index=2).


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